


bowline

by undermyskin



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: F/F, alternatively : the merihart magnum opus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-02-23 12:22:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 79,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23778178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undermyskin/pseuds/undermyskin
Summary: Triss smiled. Dewdrops were hanging on her eyelashes for dear life. Next time they fluttered close, the water disappeared. “You smell like me.”“Mm,” Philippa nodded, then submerged her collarbone to chase away the remnants of soap. “Does that bother you?”“No,” she murmured eventually. “I’m more concerned that the thought may be addictive.”.This is a collection of stories interwoven with Book events and (just a bit of) TV Show canon. This work leads up to the Blood of Elves events.
Relationships: Philippa Eilhart/Triss Merigold, Triss Merigold & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 77
Kudos: 108





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I dare you to find a task more tedious than reconciling the Witcher book timeline with the show.
> 
> This is a collection of stories interwoven with Book events and (just a bit of) TV Show canon.

**On Idealism in Art and Sundry Other Affairs**

****

_“And thus we, unknowingly, too absorbed and occupied by our own heart-rending woes, saw but did not register history occur before our eyes._

_  
It was occurring tracelessly amidst faces we did not recognize and names we had not heard of. So disturbing and horrifying is that thought; that even if we had, against all odds, raised our heads and registered its occurrence, we could not have ceased the evolution of this history, because it was visible yet unidentified. It could have been a frail old granny prattling on about her spindly legs that somehow decided the fate of a gallant voivode at the end of a spear in the distant south.  
  
It could have been a fair and charming maiden who heralded Death.  
  
This history we should be grateful to the Gods we did not register. For it is unwise to be oblivious to the world; but tenfold more gruesome to suddenly face shapeless history as it looms over you, and know with utmost certainty no man or non-man can save you from its clutches.”_

**  
\- Anonymous, _Lessons From My Lady’s Last Fortnight :_ ‘ _History Is As Much You As It Was Me’_ (c.1309)**

**……**

The feast hall of the manor was spacious, but this was far from the highest ceiling Philippa had found herself under, and she was hardly intimidated by the designated wall decorations for the night. The countess had opted for weaponry perched on wooden stalls, right in front of the typical hand-woven tapestries.

But the swords were just slightly too polished and not rusty enough to fashion themselves anything other than well-placed warnings. Philippa suspected it had more to do with history’s predilection for angry bouts erupting in this manor rather than actual fear of the guests.

Or perhaps, the countess had learned from the Cintrans’ famed mistakes, and taken precautions to avoid such a scandal. Regardless, some recognition for the woman’s strategic efforts was warranted, though they were perilously unsubtle to anyone with at least base observational skills. 

“And what of that blonde-haired vision over there?” Dijkstra enquired, unabashedly leering at a clearly inebriated young sorceress at the other side of the room whilst Philippa mentally scoffed at his predictable antics.

The woman was Keira Metz, notorious for her untroubled attitude and unappeasable appetite for Mettina Rosé at banquets.

But it was elsewhere that her eyes settled as she further scanned the venue, soon growing more intrigued by the lone figure just more than some dozen paces away, swirling a glass of wine while absent-mindedly regarding the late Count Herlvar’s portrait over the fireplace.

Philippa recognized the curled, chestnut-colored tresses before any other trademarks; the beguiling stares below long eyelashes and an unmatched taste for intricate jewelry to name a few.

It was none other than Triss Merigold, who had ascended the ranks at an astounding speed. It was equal measures exhilarating and – if she were feeling more sincere – disconcerting to bear witness to. Philippa had encountered her every few seasons with her shoulders standing a little more assured; her smiles towards the noblemen becoming just the right amount _deliberate_.

She wore bespoke, floor-length gowns with grace and elegance, even more captivating than Sabrina Glevissig’s finest plunging necklines could ever hope to be.

She looked valuable. Expensive and unattainable.

With a brisk nod towards Dijkstra, Philippa took the last sip of her mead and bid farewell the other two noblemen carrying the conversation. She strode forward, exchanging her empty glass for two flutes of Everluce from a passing servant on her way.

Following decades of experience in navigating social gatherings and pretentious nobles, she had duly noted that the up-and-coming, and the newly politically involved, were often expected to stay put in their little corner of the room and patiently anticipate a far more significant figure to approach them.

The clicks of her heel against the tiles screamed poise and authority, and amusedly, she watched from her peripheral vision as several aspirants, both male and female, hurriedly straightened up and patted themselves down, certainly in the hopes that if she were to swerve and join their little circles, they would stand out to her.

How pitiful.

Not only would she rather bite her own tongue off than have to endure another torturous hour of academic cock measuring between political opponents, but she would also never spare a glance in the direction of a person willing to sit still like an obedient pup, for hours on end, in hopes of someone important throwing them a bone.

Fleetingly, and as she finally crossed the distance between them, she wondered if Triss Merigold was also standing in long-suffering silence, awaiting for an influential noble to seek her company.

That would be extremely unsatisfactory. Philippa had innerly wagered that the young sorceress was above such silly and senseless traditions.

They were conceived and set by stout, middle-aged men, designed specifically to rob mostly women of far higher caliber of the opportunity to assert and establish themselves as their equals or superiors. Triss ought to know better.

She decided to test that theory at once, because as lovely a sight as the younger woman was, Philippa had far better ways to spend her time than on someone who may be so bland and unoriginal.

“It was commissioned by his second mistress,” Philippa started as soon as she was within hearing range, “as a gift for his boundless generosity towards herself and her bastard son.”

Triss, to her credit, barely moved, but as she slowly looked back over her shoulder to acknowledge the voice, Philippa’s trained eyes could well discern a flicker of surprise in the other woman’s irises.

Philippa moved closer, and finally settled next to the sorceress, close enough to have a wave of evening primrose and another, almost indistinguishable earthly scent invade her senses, but just short of touching the other woman’s shoulder with her own.

“An inspired endeavor all in all, if a bit unrealistic in its over-the-top flattering conception,” she continued, and took in the piece in its entirety.

She had seen it once before, in earlier stages of progression, when the late Count’s face was merely a tuber-shaped scribble on canvas and his doublet a splash of mysterious green.

She had been familiar with the artist during her many trips back and forth to the area, and knew for a fact that the intention behind the shape and arrangement of features was spades of adulation; not accuracy of portrayal.

The actual man, offspring in a long line of self-proclaimed ‘Counts’ over a plot of land near Nimnar, had had a nose so long and curved that a goldfinch could have balanced on the downturn of his bone there and he would still have been able to see it clearly, without fully crossing his eyes.

Yet, depicted was a small, negligible bump above his cartilage, placed perfectly in such a way and detailed from such angle that it only made him look more mysterious and imposing.

In reality he had been anything but.

From her left, an amused hum sounded.

Philippa stared just a bit longer at the dark, slick hair illustrated in the massive painting, before turning her gaze to the woman on her side.

She found Triss was already looking at her, with almost as much intensity as that of the azure-colored gems settled on her collarbone.

“Triss,” Philippa finally greeted, long overdue. She observed the lithe fingers wrapped around a near empty glass of wine, elbow resting on her other arm crossed at the stomach.

She saw that hand; the way Triss gently thumbed at the ring on her fourth finger, twisting and turning it, and concealed a smirk.

Triss shifted, slightly raising her chin. _There_ was the trademark stare beneath lashes.

“Lady Eilhart,” she eventually responded, a soft, modest smile gracing her lips. “Had I known we’d be having this conversation tonight, I might have felt a bit more motivated to do proper research in historical arts.”

Philippa’s eyes flashed, secretly satisfied with Triss’s implicit jibe at her age. “Historical _?_ ” She reiterated, mock-offended. “Had _I_ known you would be so callous with me, Triss Merigold, I would never have given you the time of day,” she countered, openly smirking.

It was a blatant lie.

Philippa enjoyed smart banter almost as much as she enjoyed abruptly cutting it off with a well-enunciated threat. More importantly, Triss was also aware of this, if the poorly-hidden mirth in her look was anything to go by.

“Forgive me. I only ever meant to compliment you, Lady-”

“Philippa,” she interjected, stopping Triss short. “Lady Eilhart is needlessly long and formal. The title is a waste of breath when you could be saying far more valuable things in its stead, don’t you think?”

Triss blinked, her thumb twitching again. “Of course,” she agreed, “I only ever meant to compliment you… _Philippa.”_ She murmured again.

Philippa concurred, pleased with how Triss’s voice curled around the name, and extended one of the flutes towards the younger woman.

Triss raised a brow as she hesitantly took the offered drink, slowly smiling.

“Thank you.” She took a sip, and so did Philippa, still staring at Triss.

“You’re most welcome,” she replied after lowering her glass. With an absent motion, she signaled a servant who had been standing nearby, and he scampered towards them, silver disk in hand.

Triss smiled sympathetically towards him as she settled her other empty glass of wine on it, and gently dismissed him. It was a somewhat endearing but ultimately misplaced show of kindness. 

The younger sorceress had apparently yet to learn that soon, no matter how agreeable she strived to remain towards everyone, she would make enemies out of most.

Triss turned back towards her, and sighed, wistfully. “This day has proven far less fruitful than I would have liked, I’m afraid,” she admitted, drinking some more. “But the beverages _are_ excellent.”

Philippa seized the opportunity as it was presented to her. “Inevitably so, if your efforts were directed at the Count, here,” she quipped, glancing at the painting. “There are far more noteworthy people in the room, Triss, and most outstandingly, they’re actually _alive_.”

Triss let out an incredulous chuckle, but she took Philippa’s dig in her stride. “The Count was more of a reprieve from an increasingly dull debate on the merits of granting leases in Toussaint, but I will bear your valuable advice in mind, for future reference.”

“Ah, those good old property debates,” Philippa mused, looking at the people scattered around the room before turning to Triss, her eyes carefully unreadable. “A shame. Had you only awaited a bit longer for the right company, you might have ended the day on a much more _fruitful_ note.”

She watched, carefully, as Triss’s eyes fleeted between her own and her full lips jerked.

She truly looked radiant, Philippa thought, with her tousled hair and the understated pigment on her eyelids. A woman who did not need to pack on ten pounds of powder to confidently hold a conversation was a rare sight, these days.

Nonetheless, Philippa was more interested in the response she had not yet been provided with to her own implicit question. Their exchange had been pleasant so far, but it was this that would determine how swiftly Philippa would finish this drink, and go on to replenish at another corner of the room, with different people at her side.

With a contemplative frown and pursed lips, Triss looked away, towards the fireplace. As she moved, a hint of the evening primrose scent followed.

“I’m usually in the habit of seeking out the company I wish to hold,” she stated, her tone even but smooth as ever. In the short, pregnant pause that followed, Philippa questioned whether that was the end of it, but Triss’s eyes found hers again, clear as crystal. “Unless of course I expect that company to come to me.”

Philippa lifted an eyebrow as she considered Triss’s assertion. She was unflinching, and her delivery was confident, but the tell-tale swipe of her finger on her ring spoke volumes to Philippa.

Triss was tense, but she was also bold, and for that boldness, whether it be forced or not, Philippa respected her. Much more powerful and experienced mages could not have even dared to utter the same words, much less stare at her pointedly while doing it.

Once again, a flagrant lie dangled between them. From the look in her eyes when Philippa first spoke to her, she could tell that Triss had possibly not even registered her proximity to her in the room, still less had she _expected_ Philippa to come to her.

She could call the untruth out easily, but she did not.

She got what she wanted; a response that confirmed Philippa was not, in fact, wasting her own time.

Finally, Philippa hummed appreciatively and slowly drank some more, minutely eyeing the steadily heated discussion happening a bit further to their right.

A man she was not acquainted with and cared not to find out about was wildly gesticulating to another one, mead sploshing left and right as he did. Whatever it was that had set him alight, he was fervid about, but in a manner most irksome rather than admirable.

“If I may,” Triss probed, and Philippa’s head turned again, directing her undivided attention towards the marginally husked value Triss’s voice had taken on, most certainly fuelled by the sweet wine in her throat. “I ask the same of you. There are far more noteworthy people in the room, and most _outstandingly,_ they are unfailingly available for your entertainment,” she egged on, once again staring at Philippa from under her eyelashes. “Instead you mull over the faults of idealism in art with me.”

Philippa smirked. “So you do know about the _historical_ arts.”

“I never said I didn’t,” Triss hid her growing smugness behind her drink. At the rate she was consuming the Everluce, it was _her_ who would end up cutting their conversation short.

The older woman chuckled darkly at Triss’s sharp mind. She moved just enough to quickly press her shoulder to Triss’s.

Her skin was warm under the silk of her dress.

“Am I indeed so old as to bore you, Triss Merigold? Is my company unwanted?”

Triss pursed her lips, lazily rocking back and forth to the new tune the hired bard of the evening selected to play. “Hardly.”

For a moment longer, Philippa stared fixedly at the way Triss’s eyes had grown hazier but no less vigilant, and the way she licked at the corner of her mouth, where the aftertaste of Everluce even now no doubt persisted.

Then, candidly :

“Noteworthy people are so often depressing to talk to,” she ruminated, and then leaned in, fluttering her eyelids. “And you are at the very least easier to look at, Triss Merigold.”

Suddenly, Triss let out a laugh; a loud, _full_ laugh – the sort that had no place in a gathering so hollow and pretentious as this. It was genuine and mellifluous, and Philippa found its earnest abandon somewhat riveting, if only momentarily.

The crinkles around Triss’s eyes were as joyful as she was, and though she shortly after settled down, they lingered, as defined as ever.

“Gods,” she mumbled, the sound a little muffled as she tapped her fingers on her mouth, seemingly in disbelief. “I’m at a loss as to whether I should feel vaguely flattered or _ridiculously_ insulted.”

Philippa, once again, carefully bit back a smirk. She took a step back and raised her hands slightly, in placation. “Forgive me,” she teased, entertained. “I only ever meant to compliment you, Triss,” turning the tables once again, as she did best.

She pointed her flute towards the young mage, and took a healthy sip from her drink, watching her reaction over the rim.

In those wide, vivid eyes, Philippa saw things she had become most accustomed to : curiosity, reverence, awe.

They were shining back at her, and she drank it all in, unashamed. It was always satisfying to have that effect on others, especially women, and it would be foolish to deny so.

Life was too lengthy and draining not to appreciate the displays of veneration one earned along the way, and Philippa was not above it. Humble or bashful were not words included in her gamut of words.

She was one of the noteworthy, and most significantly, she was one of the few interesting ones.

She basked in it.

Before long, Triss averted her gaze, directing it towards her half-full glass. “I hear Redania is soon expecting a new addition to the royal family.”

Philippa hummed. “Is that so?”

Triss looked at her yet again, uncertain. Then, slowly, she brought her hand up to fiddle with her necklace, and she glanced to her left, in the general direction of whom Philippa had already noted was a drunk Keira Metz.

“It may not appear so,” Triss started reluctantly, “but Keira is extremely good at extracting information.”

“Fascinating. Perhaps I should have her join us for a demonstration, then.”

Triss laughed again, though humourlessly this time. “As entertaining as that would no doubt be, I suspect her performance would be nothing short of subpar, at the moment.”

Philippa quirked a brow. “She appears to be performing just _fine_ , to me.” The blonde’s hands were draped around the neck of one of the lute players, her body pressed close to his, and her boisterous cackles were audible from behind the hall’s walls.

He was indubitably having the best night of his life.

Triss snapped her head to the right, lips quirked as if fighting off another astonished snort, but with a disapproving furrow between her eyebrows. “That’s… that’s not very nice.”

“Please,” Philippa scoffed and waved her hand away, dismissively. “Niceness is overrated, and uninteresting. I am neither of those things.”

Triss’s face promptly morphed into one of poorly-hidden condescension.

Philippa thought to remind her who she was directing that look at, but decided to let Triss’s little demonstration of scruples carry on a while longer.

“Of course,” she shook her head. “Decency. A mage’s sworn nemesis.” Her hand left her necklace and she crossed her arm again under the one holding her drink.

“Have I not been decent to you, Triss?” Philippa asked, genuinely interested in the pertinacity of emotion behind Triss’s words.

Triss stared at her. “Yes,” she conceded. “Yes you have.”

Philippa raised both her eyebrows then, inquisitively.

Triss shook her head again, gulping down a hefty amount of her remaining drink.

“You’re not decent to _her_.”

“I’m not conversing with _her_.”

Finally, Triss scoffed. “Selective decency is no decency at all.”

At that, Philippa’s eyes darkened, her authoritative nature overtaking her. She inched forward, and watched as Triss’s eyes quickly fled to her lips, her hands, and back up to her eyes, in short succession.

Despite the din surrounding the room, she was confident she could pinpoint with astounding precision the exact moment that Triss’s breath got caught low in her throat, her next inhalation very nearly shallowing.

She had gone as still as the statues festooning the gardens and her jaw had tightened, forcibly shut closed.

In the back of her mind, Philippa tucked the reaction away for later.

“Careful with your suppositions, Triss. Are you under the impression that you’re receiving special treatment?” She asked, voice low and relaxed, but commanding. “That I’m not simply permitting you to use that tone of voice with me, and that such permissions cannot be easily and permanently revoked?”

Against all odds, Triss did not back away. She did, however, look uneasy, as if she was treading through new terrain which she had not been properly equipped for back in the academy.

And she was correct; no one in Aretuza could have possibly prepared her for this. Tissaia de Vries was excellent at many things, but Philippa had long bested her teacher in these matters.

This was uncharted territory for Triss, and a further opportunity for Philippa to take note of her limits.

The young sorceress swallowed. It seemed as if she was ready to say something, but then she frowned, and bit it back.

She stared some more between Philippa’s steady eyes. Whatever it was she was seeking out, Philippa made certain to lock away behind the cover of her well-trained expression.

Triss’s own eyes could not have been more open, and it was as much a flaw as it was an instrument of distraction. Her irises were seemingly curving and expanding like optical illusions the longer Philippa peered into them.

Ultimately, Triss stuck her tongue in her cheek – Philippa most definitely tucked _that_ away, too – and slowly exhaled. Triss’s eyes had widened slightly in her own revelation, and her lips unhurriedly bore a bitter smile.

“I am under the impression that _I’m_ suddenly the one who’s required to _perform_.”

“You’ve been performing all along, young one,” Philippa assured, taking in the minute downturn of Triss’s lips. “Everyone does. For the benefit of your own sanity, I would advise that you didn’t take it too personally and simply got on with it.”

As she let that sink in, rivulets of tension passed between them, before Philippa’s peripheral vision caught the movement of Dijkstra’s hand, their agreed-upon signal, and she stepped back, diffusing both the tension and ending their proximity.

“Well,” Philippa started as though they had just picked up conversation from the moment they were talking about Count Herlvar’s unsightly nose, and not having an avid staring match in the middle of a busy banquet. “As pleasant as this encounter has been, there are urgent matters requiring my attention I’m afraid.”

In her defence, Triss was seemingly still pondering on the previous contention, so she failed to immediately react. But seconds later she caught up, and shook her head subtly as if coming out of a trance.

“Understandably,” Triss responded. She took a further step back herself. Her knuckles were growing whiter around the glass they were holding, and a faint flush competing with those detailed in famous couplets was creeping up her freckled cheeks.

“The pleasure was all mine, Philippa.” She eventually stated, smiling less brightly but with no lack of warmth, and extending a hand, as if to shake Philippa’s.

Gods, she truly _was_ young. And so delightfully naïve. Philippa reflected on all the potential this woman had to push forward in the world, and shuddered in well-hidden thrill.

She moved forward again, holding Triss’s eyes and gently grabbing and turning her palm in her own hand as she guided it upwards, until her lips met the delicate skin of her knuckles, right next to the silver ring Triss seemed ever so attached to.

Philippa rested them there for merely a moment, but the accompanying, unrestrained emotion pooling in Triss’s eyes would dawdle around in her brain for much longer.

“Later, Triss Merigold.” Philippa stated, with a hint of a smirk, and after letting her hand go, sinuously turned around, not looking back. She needn’t have either; she already knew with utmost confidence that she had accomplished her goal.

On her way back to Dijkstra, that very same servant tottered in front of her.

Right on time, for Philippa had just finished her drink anyways.

……

“Won’t you ask me why I’m here?”

Philippa leaned over the balustrade and looked out at the well-groomed rows of shrubs surrounding the sculptures at the centre of the courtyard.

“Surely not just to admire the hard-earned results of horticultural experts’ anti-chlorosis techniques?”

“Surely not.”

“Hmm,” Philippa hummed. “Need I ask? It seems you’re wont to deign me with the information anyways.”

“You… You need not.” Triss said, sounding something between unsure and exasperated. Philippa had her back to her, and thus could not determine unerringly. “But I thought you might.”

“Did you?”

“I did.”

“Hmm,” she hummed again.

From a few paces away, she heard a gentle sigh and before long she saw two hands spread over the edge of the balustrade, gripping softly at the smooth stone.

When Philippa glanced up, Triss was staring somewhat torpidly not at the sculptures some furlongs away, of some young nymphs twisting their bodies at impossible angles whilst in the throes of ecstasy, but at a large, imposing lime tree further out of the estate, just barely visible in the horizon amidst the approaching nightfall.

“Your emphatic preference of prolonged silences is terribly reminiscent of Tissaia,” Triss claimed, dryly.

Philippa had half a mind to grimace, but thought better of it. “Understandable. One tends to identify a little bit of their mentor in everyone they meet; such is the impression left on the young and supple mind. She was, after all, your Mistress, I presume?”

“You presume correctly,” Triss started, with a tone that suggested she was about to elaborate on a half-thought rather than the fully fleshed out monologue she had no doubt already come up with in that pretty head of hers. “Tissaia did leave quite the impression on me, though I could scarcely allege I see her in everyone I meet. She is no ordinary woman, as I am sure you’re well aware.”

“I surely am,” Philippa replied, smiling sharply. She turned to Triss finally, cocking a hip against the balustrade. “She must have recognized a great deal of promise in you, to take you under her wing like that. Tissaia de Vries has always been extremely selective with whom she endorses, Triss.”

Triss smiled earnestly, and once again, right on cue, a rosy blush slowly stretched over her collarbone and the limber column of her neck.

“I thank you for your kindness, Philippa.”

Philippa shook her head. “It is more truth than kindness.”

“Still. Spoken by you it matters thrice as much as a plain fact.”

Philippa said nothing. In the distance, voices muted from behind the heavy entrance gate bellowed and roared with laughter and cheer.

The festivity had carried well into dusk, aided by the apparently unrelenting supply of booze and other lavish victuals. The bard’s lute was similarly unrelenting, and soon he began holding soprano tones over a renowned ballad about the lovely Queen Cerro’s equally renowned womanly attributes.

The sounds carried over to them through the gentle breeze, but not strong enough to drown out the pleasant buzz of a warm evening in the countryside.

Philippa directed her eyes at Triss again. “Why, then, are you here?”

Triss looked at her intently.

“I sought the company I wished to hold.”

With a soft smirk on her face, Philippa moved a hand indifferently.

“Let’s not bother with the glaringly obvious, Triss; I knew that already,” she stated. “Why are you _here?_ In the northernmost part of Redania, during an upsurge of rumours that your King is readying for a war of tariffs with King Vizimir.”

As suspected, Triss grew quiet, quickly glancing away. Her chestnut locks swayed slightly with the wind and the smell of vanilla and evening primrose once more draped over them.

“Rumours,” Triss eventually murmured, “are hardly sound basis for conjectures.”

“I’ve come up with no conjecture, young one.” Philippa lied easily, shrugging. She did have a drafted assumption as to why Triss was here, but wanted to reaffirm it. “I merely asked the question you so eagerly wished I had asked just some minutes ago.”

A short laugh.

Some of the candle lights burning within the lanterns flickered around them. They were placed carefully at each side of the large steps underneath the main entrance and spreading towards two opposite flights of stairs surrounding the wide terrace where they stood.

The two rows of lights went on and on, meeting again at the bottom and narrowing, parallel to each other along the pathways on the gardens, along the span of the shrubs, and stopping just short of the two sculptures.

Triss, with her pearly white teeth and her glimmering eyes, glowed brighter than them.

The younger woman slowly turned completely, placing her elbows and back on the balustrade instead and leaning back on them.

She had a sort of icy expression curling around the corner of her lips, though its effect was much betrayed by the seemingly innate warmth her eyes always exuded.

“I’m not involved in these kinds of issues, Philippa.”

“Oh?” Philippa asked, thinking on the direction of the conversation.

In truth, she had no more interest in the possible customs war between the two kingdoms than she did in a goatherder’s breeches – that is to say : none at all.

Dijkstra had time and again established, with the help of some coin and conversations laden with well-formed promises to select officers often crossing the Pontar, that though these rumors may have become so persistent as to finally pierce the veil of reality, they ought to remain _just_ rumors for at least a little while still.

She was, however, interested in Triss’s influence over Temerian affairs. She believed Triss might have attempted to coerce the guild’s merchants into sharing trade secrets, or rile them up into complaining against Vizimir’s planned customs and tax bill. Her assumption had not been correct.

“And here I was under the impression you sat comfortably in King Foltest’s Royal Council,” she pressed.

Triss’s eyes hardened infinitesimally.

“I do. My seat’s tall backrest is inlaid with silver and polished oak from the Dragon Mountains, gifted to King Foltest a short time ago by his venerable highness King Esterad Thyssen, as a sign of good will and uberrimae fidei in strong trading relations despite the not-so-neat coup in Kovir. In turn it was given to me by his Majesty as a further expression of gratitude for an issue I aided him with, years back,” Triss huffed disbelievingly and stared up into the starry sky. “Unfortunately, apart from the few envious glares it has caused and the _comfort_ it provides, the chair has granted me no favors in the department of respect.”

Intrigued, Philippa tilted her head slightly. “Foltest does not hear your advice?”

“Oh he most certainly does,” Triss nodded, still glouting at the sky as if it had somehow wronged her enough to deserve being on the receiving end of all the pent-up frustration brimming in her tone. “Shortly after Duke Hereward’s knightly counsel and right before High Priest Willemer’s haughty remarks at the expense of godless sorcerers.”

Philippa scoffed, shaking her head sympathetically. She would sooner spend time discussing politics with an alpine goat than sit across that irrational fool.

“At least old Willemer’s seat isn’t as comfortable as yours?”

Triss grinned sheepishly. It seemed from the smile on her face that she found it exhilarating to talk so freely and without reserves about her grievances in the castle.

And as endearing as the smile was, it was not half as valuable to Philippa as the verdict she managed to reach from it : it appeared Triss did not discuss these matters with Keira Metz or Fercart of Cidaris behind closed doors.

They did not exchange wicked secrets and complaints in their quarters late at night over a hefty bottle of Beauclair’s best Pinot noir, like a couple of good friends and coworkers would.

Interesting indeed.

“He has a maiden carry in a cushion sometimes, for his back pains.”

Philippa smirked, eyes flashing conspirationally. “They should carry in lice and worms. I’ve heard they do wonders for spinal irritation…”

Away from them, the doors opened and a pie-eyed man came stumbling through, fumbling in the dark with the banister flanking the stairs. Where they stood, Triss shook her head, her controlled laughter scandalized.

“Lady Eilhart, remind me to never dare cross you.”

Philippa’s piercing eyes settled heavily on the younger mage.

“I shall, Triss Merigold,” she stated. “Be sure, one day, I shall.”

……

Later, after the night had finally settled and they had elected to head back inside, Triss had reached out with a soft-skinned hand and quietly laid it on Philippa’s elbow, stilling her in front of the entrance.

She carefully took two abandoned, near empty chalices from atop an intricately carved white marble stand joined to the banister at the side of the wall, and handed one to Philippa.

“We were tipped,” she muttered, discreetly, as if anyone could listen in, even though the closest living thing outside the hall apart from them was a lonely firefly, buzzing around some wildrye a few paces away. “Members from the Order of the White Rose would be here tonight, partaking in the festivities. They were also to discuss imperative details concerning a hasty and urgent importation of Mahakam steel and cartfuls of Temerian longswords into Redania.”

A vocal, overly affectionate and obnoxious pair suddenly threw open the gates, and Triss stopped talking instantly, sidestepping them to avoid collision.

Raising her chalice and changing her stance almost imperceptibly, she acted as if they had been amicably gossiping something so trivial as the troubadour’s next song. Philippa, impressed, smiled appreciatively. 

The couple, originally planning to undress each other then and there as was clear from their frantic exchanging of fluids, seemingly took abrupt notice of the sorceresses and moved a bit further away.

The male, a drunkard, waved away happily at Philippa and Triss as he went, much to his companion’s chagrin. Philippa didn’t bother to hide her disdain. Triss mustered up a forced smile, waiting for the couple to retreat further down the terrace before swiftly turning back to the matter at hand, her voice even lower than before.

“I recognized at least two of them at the hall. One of them participated in the conversation about leases in Toussaint. The other, with the scar on his face - hard to miss because he wears the insignia - Keira is familiar with,” Triss looked over her shoulder, checking to see if the gates were still open. “He’s Arthur Tailles. Pride of the Order and of Duke Hereward. Anyone else in there who has held long and intense conversations with those two is not Temerian. We would have known.”

Philippa remained cautiously silent, feigning thought.

“I believe they’re of a Redanian commandery. And I think this – so-called importation, would be much more accurately labeled as smuggling. A crafty way of avoiding any upcoming tax adjustments between the two nations.” Triss’s eyes fleeted between Philippa’s dark ones.

After a moment, she pursed her lips, took a step back, and removed her hand from Philippa’s arm. “We’re merely here to observe. Whatever activities highly-esteemed Temerian knights embark on over this side of the Pontar is beyond my permissible sphere of… comfort, so to speak. Yours, on the other hand…”

Philippa raised her chin, exhaling a measured sigh, looking towards the gates. “I understand,” she said, tone solemn. Then, “thank you for confiding with me, Triss.” She smiled with meticulous ease.

Triss tipped her head ever so lightly, a strange expression playing at her features. Finally, and without looking away, she nodded. “You’re most welcome, though I suppose it’s really nothing,” she murmured.

“Oh no, it’s most certainly something. It may bear the gravity of a small transgression now but it could have amounted to something much greater in the future. Now I have been made aware of it, thanks to you, Triss Merigold. And so it shall never come to be at all.”

Triss bowed her head in acceptance of the compliment. Her supplementary smile was warm and sincerely bashful.

…….

“Phil, these cow-ploughers weighed more than five keels of coal. Kindly allow me to stay seated for a minute longer, if your Grace’s heart so pleases.”

Philippa, impassive and devoid of any sympathy, stared him down. “It does not. Get up Sigismund. I want them dispatched with before daybreak.”

Dijkstra’s eyes narrowed.

“They’re knights of a darned Order. We can’t just make them disappear, it will arouse suspicion. Suspicion we don’t need on our tails considering Vizimir is not fully informed of this little expedition.” His voice was coarser than the stray dogs barking beneath their window.

Philippa exhaled a long sigh and massaged her temple, annoyed.

Dijkstra’s value was exactly the fact that he thought on everything so much and so thouroughly, but in this moment all she wished was for him to shut up and carry out instructions.

She was tired and the dress was sticking to her like second skin. The thought of a bath with suds of spikenard soap awaiting her in Montecalvo kept her focused on the task at hand.

“Had you ever even heard of these three men before the formal debrief at Tretogor?” Before Dijkstra had the chance to reply, his mouth already half open, Philippa raised a silencing hand. “No. You had heard of the Order, but not of these three men, who, mistakenly, came here without their uniform tonight. They are nothing but plebes, new and unexperienced pawns in a game they don’t understand. If it worries you so much, make it seem as if it were a brutal bandit attack on the dirt tracks; I care not for the details. Just get it over with, and fast.”

Dijkstra muttered something under his breath and begrudgingly got up. “I’ll pass on the orders to my men at once. But this was a waste of my very, very precious time, Philippa. We’re leaving here with nothing but a shitload of vague clues on the Nilfgaardians’ intentions and a massive fucking headache. Remind me again why we didn’t just interrogate the big guy and his lackey? They clearly have high-ranking access to intelligence gathered by the Order.”

Philippa stared at the window, where midnight chill and humidity had fogged up the glass. She reflected on the day and the evening she had had.

She thought of the messages arriving in the north from Nazair, detailing the situation in the south as ‘uncertain’ and ‘disquieting’. From Forgeham to the capital in Metinna, a sea of black and gold flooded the grounds. The Nilfgaardian sun shone bright not only on the breastplates of the usurper’s armed units, but on the flags of merchants, peasants and several establishments.

Philippa thought of Keira Metz, the sorceress so gifted in extracting information, whose personage Triss was so eager to defend yet apparently did not mingle and gossip with outside of Foltest’s Royal Council meetings.

She thought of Triss Merigold, her timid smiles and her awestruck eyes. She thought about how willingly, and mostly unprompted, Triss had shared information with her.

“Philippa.”

She turned. “They were Temerian.”

Dijkstra’s eyes, impossibly, narrowed even more. “When has that ever proved an insuperable hurdle?”

“Ever since I found out one of them is very dear to Temerian nobility,” Philippa retorted. “Stop stalling and get to work. I’m not intending to spend my night in this lackluster inn chamber.”

“Of course not.” Dijkstra replied in spades of sarcasm. He headed for the door. More dogs barked.

“Dijkstra,” called Philippa, looking at him over the shoulder. “It would serve us well to put our contacts in the Mahakam mines to use, make sure to stir some trouble. No refined Mahakam steel is to be allowed in Redania without additional fees for the next fortnight, on suspicion of component trafficking.”

Sigismund Dijkstra, as quick as ever, crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the doorframe.

“Did you have too much wine, Philippa? Perhaps the presence of a certain King on the throne of Redania has slipped your mind?”

Philippa tsked and turned back to the window pane.

A deciduous cherry tree planted outside the window was in full bloom, prettily swaying its branches to the rhythm of faint wind. She looked a bit closer with the aid of her magic, and spotted some treeswifts perched atop it, teetering around their nest slightly distraught.

Their young one was nowhere to be seen.

“Less of the patronizing and more of the thinking, Dijkstra. Temeria has an infestation issue of the rodent sort. If men of the Order there can pussyfoot behind Foltest’s back and still hold support from the Duke on his Royal Council, poking that beast could prove advantageous to Redania in the long run. Foltest will want to know why his exports have been delayed, and with a bit of prodding, may come upon some disturbing findings,” Philippa sighed, almost theatrically, as if the simplicity of the matter was boring her.

“Too busy as he will no doubt be restoring his precious authority, he might even neglect to continue being a nuisance in the border. I will discuss the matter with King Vizimir on my next visit to Tretogor. If he knows what’s best for him, he’ll listen.”

Dijkstra shook his head, a nasty smile overtaking his features. Philippa could not see it, but she could sense it in the timbre of his voice when he finally spoke.

“Forgive my boorish curiosity, Phil, but from the above I can’t help but surmise that little Triss Merigold has been added to your list of prized pets. Am I correct?” His voice was so falsely saccharine sweet that it could give her cavities.

Philippa ran a contemplative finger over her chin, still staring at the pair of crested treeswifts, distressed as they were over their lost brood.

She didn’t have to ponder too long on what happened.

It had flapped its wings and attempted to fly off the nest too soon. The stray mutts must have eaten it when it fell, but the birds were still cawing after it.

 _Leave_ , urged her mind. _It’s not coming back._

“You are forgiven,” said Philippa, calmly, not one to be phased by such frivolous talk. He had meant to provoke her emotions, but she kept them effortlessly in check, as always. She unhurriedly turned, glancing at Dijkstra. “And you may go.”

His frowning mug resembled that of a constipated hog, she mused. But after some seconds, he left quietly and Philippa embraced the silence gratefully.

It had been a long and taxing day; the feast too raucous and too ostentatious.

Her head angled towards the window again. The treeswifts toddled on the very same branch, no less upset than they were minutes ago.

For a moment, she focused on her own reflection on the window. Her dark eyes seemed tired and merciless to her. Her lips, without the ruddy sheen of their previous gloss, had narrowed and thinned, and the line of her jaw had set determinedly in a way Philippa had grown very accustomed to.

She bit her gum and exhaled, attention shifting back to the sapling.

With a sharp and calculated flourish of her fingers, the offshoots of the cherry tree started to judder violently, shedding some weak leaves and frightening away the crested treeswifts instantaneously. They flew off with wild abandon.

 _Don’t come back,_ she thought. _It’s better that way._ Just a few more hours and she too would leave, sink into cool water and fresh soapsuds.

Until then, she would wait and ensure the world kept spinning in Redania’s favor for just a short while longer.

……


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Neither foe nor friend,” she mused and her lips curled bitterly. “What are you to me then, Philippa?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VEbnP-u0n5k
> 
> I should not be posting this so soon. Alas... what can one do...

**Trying Times**

_“If she smiles, assume it is arranged and deceitful before anything other.  
  
If she scowls, do not loiter; make haste to the most easily accessible exit and refrain from inhaling an unnecessary amount of oxygen as she most certainly believes it to be hers alone for consumption.  
  
If she remains expressionless, then chance lingering, should the risks be truly worth the reward.  
  
But if she laughs sincerely and wholly, like the distant sound of a mellow triad tugged on an elven harp, sweet as drizzling Aedirnian honey on rye bread in the thick of summer; _

_Run.  
  
For it be unwise to dwell with women capable of both power and loveliness.”_

_  
- **P. 27, Ch. III: ‘Prithee, Witch, ‘Ave Mercy!’, Pocketbook for Merchants,**_ **Oxenfurt Academy  
(c. 1255)**

……

Near the gate in Oxenfurt stood a tall, wooden kiosk where a woman doused in rosemary essence had fastidiously assembled various curious artefacts. But most striking to Triss were the earthenware and varicoloured majolica by the edge of the stall. She reached out with sylphlike fingers and ran the tips over the lively ridges on the plates, lips slightly open in rapt attention.

They were resplendent.

“How much for this beautiful platter?”

The woman’s perfume hung heavily in the air as she practically leaped from her chair to approach Triss. “Ah, clever eye ye’ve got. Indigo rises in value faster than a man’s pecker at a brothel!”

Triss winced internally but forced her lips into a smile.

“The shapes caught my eye. How much for it, kind lady?”

“Aye, the shapes are something, alright! The man who sold it to me said it was made and drawn from a ceramicist in Poviss. Ye know how cultured they’s are over there, of course?”

“Of course. Is there a price for it, sweet lady?”

“Well I’ll tell you what. These are the only ones of their kind left, these. The white glaze, you see, it’s been tougher to import from Nilfgaard after his Imperial Arse-”

“Nerka bloody ‘ell! You’re going to chase off every last customer with your yammering, you foul woman!” A short, buxom man rounded the corner of the kiosk, flushed and heaving from his angry gesticulating. “The bonny lass asked for a darned price and ‘ere you are, ranting about politics. Scram!”

Triss’s urge to bury her head in her hands was almost irresistible.

The woman, thoroughly told off, grumbled something under her breath and returned to her chair by the side of the stall.

“I apologize on ‘er behalf, fair lady. We’ve not had a soul stop by our ‘umble establishment for quite some time now. She got a bit excited, that she did.”

Triss, once again, smiled politely, and nodded. “No reason to fret, dear sir. I will purchase the majolica regardless.”

“How swell! That’ll be seven farthings!” Exclaimed the man, all traces of sheepishness wiped from his face.

She wondered whether she could push for a bargain - the price was a bit high for crockery, even by Redanian standards. However, the thought of spending a second too long by the temperamental pair of merchants torturously materialised in her head, and she pursed her lips instead, digging into the stitch of her not-so-ordinary purse to pull out the requested amount.

“Here you go.”

The man unceremoniously swiped his greasy hands down his dirty linen apron, and proceeded to take the coins, one by one, almost suspicious. Moments later, and after shooting Triss more than a few sceptical glances, he grinned nastily. Satisfied that he was not being duped, he straightened up and gracelessly shoved the platter in Triss’s direction.

“Thank you kindly,” drawled the man. “Remember to keep a weather eye on it. These are trying times, forsooth. Besides its mighty academics, the narrow streets of Oxenfurt are also walked by hoodlums, Lady…”

“Merigold. Triss Merigold,” she offered, and grasped at the item carefully. Her coy smile was calculated.

The man’s teeth flashed in a grin. “What a jolly good name.”

Triss turned around, and smiled to herself, this time more candidly.

……

“Miss Merigold!”

The horse neighed, and Triss pulled her warm qiviut shawl tighter around herself. Frowning, she tried to locate the source of the voice, but it had drowned in the ruckus of the town square.

“Miss- Miss Merigold!” She heard again, and this time she tugged at the mare’s reins, angling her body to the left. The lamentable lack of space meant that she had to be extra mindful not to trample the running children. “Spirits! Over here my Lady!”

Between two busy workshops, hidden behind a group of brassy vendors touting what Triss could make was mostly gimcrack jewellery, a restless man frantically shook a handkerchief at her. She tilted her head in amusement. She had never seen this character before in her life.

Puzzled, she nudged the stirrups gently and the mare inched forward.

“Miss Merigold, finally!” The man rejoiced when she finally reached him. He looked worse for wear; sweaty and drained of energy. “I feared for a moment I would have to pursue you further across the city.”

“Further?” queried Triss. “Mind my asking, sir, but who are you?”

“I don’t mind, not in the slightest! My name is Dorlam Van Braun, and you, of course, are-” he stopped mid-sentence, chest deflating. His eyes narrowed as he stared up at her. “You _are_ Triss Merigold, are you not?”

Triss’s brows hiked up, and she smirked in amusement. “In the flesh,” she assured.

“Splendid! I wish we could linger on introductions but I’m afeared time is of the essence. We must depart at once!” His chest puffed up, he adjusted the velvet cap on his head, swiping quickly at the dampness gathered on his hairline. Without so much as a glance backwards, he whirled around and started on a cobble path to the right of the square.

Triss pursed her lips, urging the mare slowly forward again. “Do I know you from somewhere, Dorlam Van Braun?”

“Regrettably not, my Lady. Such an encounter would have certainly remained forever ingrained in the abysses of my mind.”

 _He’s an academic_ , she thought. Too old to be a student, from the looks of it. A lecturer?

“How delightful,” Triss mused, “yet so questionably vague.” She halted the horse. “I’m not in the habit of following shady individuals into dim alleyways, sir Van Braun.”

Perched upon her saddle as she was, she got a clear view of his moue as he stopped and turned. “Shady? You wound me, miss.”

“Forgive me,” she stated, though nothing about her expression felt contrite. Triss had little in the way of pretence in such matters. “Your eloquence is admirable, but hardly reassuring of your intentions.”

The man sighed, clearly irked. “I am an envoy of Oxenfurt Academy, Miss Merigold. I have been instructed to swiftly escort you to the bridge. You are, simply put, late. Tardiness is not much tolerated at the Faculties, my Lady.”

“For the seminar?” Triss furrowed her eyebrows and looked up at the sky. She had hoped to roam some more on the market’s streets. “But the invitation indicated it would commence at noon.”

Dorlam Van Braun guffawed, as if astonished by what she had just dared claim. His face had twisted into a supercilious scowl. Triss was beginning to feel less and less inclined to accompany him anywhere. This encounter would certainly remain forever ingrained in _her_ mind for all the wrong reasons.

“By the Gods, my Lady. Don’t you know any better? What the letters indicate is never the academics’ will.”

Triss sucked in her cheeks and pressed her tongue against the back of her teeth in annoyance, inhaling deeply.

“And what, pray tell, dear sir, is the academics’ will?”

……

“This way, please.”

The Academy, Triss realized, was as formidable as it was intimidating. From this angle, it looked less like a school built on elven foundation and more like the daunting façade of a fortress. The main building’s entrance was accessible through a set of stairs, starting under a huge dome which was supported by two robust pillars. The yard was encircled by walls interspersed with tall turrets, on which Triss could distinguish scattered window panes as if they were a castle’s arrowslits. There was a fountain in the middle of the yard, skilfully tiled and ornate with cyan stone. In the middle, chiselled and erected was the lonely figure of a she-elf languidly extending one arm up towards the heavens with a book tucked under the other. The colour grading of the marbles seemed unusual, but Triss was no connoisseur of sculptures.

She regarded it carefully as they passed by, and eventually concluded it felt rather out of place. Either that, or everything surrounding it was.

“This building, despite it bearing the title of Department of Chemistry, also houses most of the lectures offered by the Department of Supernatural Phenomena,” offered the young gentleman who had been sent to show her to her quarters for the day. He noticed her scrutinizing the statue. “There was a disagreement between the Board members about whether the fountain should remain. The vision for these grounds differed to quite a large extent from the rest in the Academy – the elven ruins were never even part of the drafts.”

Triss bit back a scoff. Of course they weren’t. Leave it to nouveau riche alchemy professors to feel strongly against all things elf-related.

“After lengthy deliberation, someone finally managed to persuade the Board not to destroy the fountain, but add a manuscript under the elf’s arm,” he continued.

She lifted a brow. Well that explained the colour gradation. “Who was it?”

“Master of arcane magic, sir Radcliffe of Oxenfurt.”

Triss hummed noncommittally as she pinched her dress upwards, avoiding a small puddle of mud. She had only met him once, before a gathering of the Council members in Thanedd. It had not been long before her graduation, and she had been shadowing Tissaia at the time, upon her request. They had crossed paths at the halls and in greeting the rectoress, the high-pitched, nasal tone of his voice had been the only aspect of his character to leave any sort of lasting impression on Triss.

Seeing as though he was evidently very well-respected here, she did not plan on disclosing her experiences to the young man by her side.

At the bottom of the stairs, instead of marching straight ahead towards the main entrance, the man turned, one arm extended towards a long, artificially lit corridor, the other hovering but not-quite-touching Triss’s lower back to steer her. When she stared at him again, complying with the unspoken direction, she thought she saw a rosiness bloom wonderfully across his cheeks.

“Are you a student here, Heron?”

The man nodded. “Near graduate. Soon I will resume apprenticeship under my professor’s care. It will hopefully lead to my hiring as a lecturer here.”

Triss smiled amiably. “You sound very passionate about it.”

Heron chuckled, almost timidly. As they walked, he kept his hands clasped behind his back and his curly hair, a tad unkempt and tangled, swayed to and fro in tandem with his wide gait. She found him and his mannerisms somewhat amusing, but not negatively so. He reminded her of the enthusiasm she had been teeming with when she was in Aretuza, still an ambitious and hardworking student herself, and the memory was not at all unwelcome.

“I am,” he beamed. “Very much so, Lady Merigold.”

Triss stared at him from behind heavy eyelashes. “You can call me Triss.”

For the umpteenth time in the last hour they had been together, touring the grounds, he crinkled his nose and hastily threaded his fingers through the mass of his hair, twisting it further. She had understood early on that it was a nervous tick, and she smiled softly again, wanting to put him at ease.

“I couldn’t, Lady Merigold,” he insisted. He wasn’t looking at her. “Professor La Voisier would have my head.”

“Is that so?” She asked, mischievously. On her left, the corridor was adorned with portraits of people she could only assume were alumni of the Department. “I don’t see Professor La Voisier anywhere near us right now.”

Heron stole glances at her as his pace faltered. She walked on, undisturbed.

“Still,” he mumbled. “I wouldn’t want to insult you in any way.”

Triss laughed loudly. This young man was truly a rare flower among thorns.

She stopped and turned to him, setting a hand on his bicep to halt his movement. Her smile was a delicate balance of exasperation and tenderness.

“You insult me by believing I’d be vain enough to feel offended because you omitted some banal title.”

Heron went beetroot red from embarrassment. Triss would have felt guilty if she weren’t genuinely _enjoying_ herself so much. She would certainly remember him much more fondly than Dorlam Van Braun.

“I’m- I would never, ever, think you vain, Lady-” he swallowed. He breathed. His warm, hazel eyes were dancing between her own. “ _Triss_. Vain is not on a conceivable list of adjectives I would use to describe you.”

Triss tipped her head, doing nothing to prevent a face-splitting grin from taking over her features. This felt very, very effortless, and so very refreshing.

She really should stop.

“I’m pleased.” Triss nodded her approval and pointedly started walking again. He followed suit. “Will you be attending the seminar?”

He shook his head, bemused. “I would love to, really, but I have work to do.” At Triss’s inquisitive glance, he elaborated. “Experiments.”

Silence befell them, and she could tell that though it was not uncomfortable per se, Heron was fidgeting, probably overthinking the entire exchange in his mind. They only strolled for a bit further before he slowly came to a halt, facing a wooden door with a colourful wreath of autumn leaves hanging over an antique, brass door knocker.

Triss exhaled loudly, surprised. “Flower crowns?”

Heron had a palm rubbing at the back of his neck, awkwardly. “One of the uh… one of the female students placed it there. She thought it may feel… homely.”

“Did she?”

Triss bit her lip, humming in delight. She sized him up; the narrow, thin shoulders, the long, lanky legs, the cut of his vest as it fell sloppily over his chest. He was handsome, she thought, in a youthful, unconventional way. His nose was just slightly bent and his lips were maybe too full in proportion to the rest of his face, but combined, they all made for a charming young fellow. His eyes were overflowing with energy and appetite for life, and Triss found herself drawn to his light like a moth to a flame.

“Well,” she smirked, leaning back against the door. “Please let the student know that she has my thanks. It feels _very_ homely.”

Heron sucked his cheeks in, shaking his head at himself. A ringlet of hair dropped over his forehead as he chuckled quietly. Finally, he looked at her again, and nodded. “I will.”

“Excellent.” Triss stated. Then, knowing she owed it to him to be the responsible one, she leaned forward suddenly, grasping at the lapels of his wool jacket, and pressed her lips to his cheek in a chaste kiss. “Thank you for the tour, Heron. I hope one day you can tell me more about that list of adjectives you’ve conceived.”

He blushed furiously once more. Triss smiled coquettishly and stepped back, opening her door.

“Good day, Triss.”

“Good day, Heron.”

……

“…Xanthosis ought not to be subsumed by the final stage, that of iosis. Despite what some up-and-coming poseur modernists would advocate, it is my firm belief that this phase will remain indispensable to alchemical formulas for eons to come. To disregard its importance in the procedure would entail discounting its significance in our moral, intellectual and spiritual transmutation. Without the solar awakening, the dawnbreak, you could never hope to reach sundown, when the body of work has finally accumulated, and you can rearrange your outcomes into a transcendent sense of self, worthy of reacquainting to the Continent.”

Professor Aberthal, with his chest inflated from pride and his tone of voice almost thunderous, smiled grandly and clapped his hands once, confidently. He adjusted the spectacles perched on his nose.

“That, dear gentlemen, is the theory behind the _magnum opus,_ the instrument for creating a philosopher’s stone, the gateway to the elixir of life, and all else your eager heart desires,” he finished.

Unbothered by the blatant rejection of her presence in the room, Triss leaned further back on her chair, hands clasped at the top of her crossed legs. She worried her bottom lip with her teeth and tilted her head to the right, managing a clearer view of the transmutation circle displayed on a huge parchment hanging behind the speaker.

 _That, dear gentlemen, is no more but a minor fragment of the theory behind the magnum opus, an instrument for creating the sorcerer’s stone, the gateway to acquiring arcana about elves’ genetic minutiae, and all else your selfish heart seeks to possess_ , Triss corrected in her head.

She said nothing.

Jean La Voisier, professor of Chemistry and coordinator of this particular occasion, rose from his seat and proceeded to clap rapidly, with the thrill of a child watching a riveting marionette show. His sheer enthusiasm prompted a torrent of impassioned applause in the room.

Triss, despite herself, reluctantly joined them. After all, she had been sent here by King Foltest, and it would not do to be too discourteous.

“What an insightful lecture, sir Aberthal. The Koviri most definitely ought to be ecstatic to count themselves amongst your confreres!”

Triss suppressed an eye-roll and averted her gaze towards the window on the wall, where thin droplets of rain rolled down the glass in abstract shapes. Shorter as the days had gotten in autumn, dusk drew near them fast, and not for the first time in the span of the last few hours, she felt dread hike up her chest at the prospect of returning to her assigned quarters for the night. Despite Heron’s best efforts with the wreath decorating the door, the inside held an aura the exact opposite of ‘homely’. The room had been dull and bereft of any natural light, the walls were dank with moisture gathered at the corners, and the mattress was too tough on her back, as if it was stuffed with ragged rocks pulled out from the Pontar and not semiplumes and down feathers. Notwithstanding the many intricately carved bookshelves and a wooden easel resting by the door, there was almost nothing in the room reminiscent of student dwellings. In fact, it resembled more a prison than a room.

Briefly, she wondered if Aberthal’s temporary living quarters also suffered from a distinct lack of comfort and costly embellishments. Somehow, she doubted it.

Another round of applauses brought her out of her reverie, and she turned back to the commotion at the front of the hall. Some fourteen or fifteen men were clumped around sir Aberthal, showering him in flattery and vacuous praises.

_Men._

“Now, now, gentlemen,” his voice sounded clearly amidst the hubbub circling him. “Let us not hasten an occasion so enjoyable. I will stay and answer any inquiries you may have, but first, pour some sweet nectar for my arid throat.”

“At once!” La Voisier bellowed eagerly. Triss contemplated whether there would ever be a more appropriate time to excuse herself from the room. “Jarun! Grab the demijohns. You all know the regulations – graduates and lecturers can grab a tumbler, the rest of you I forbid from even getting a sniff.”

Once again, her presence was ignored.

The indignant scoff she had been so desperately struggling to swallow down in the duration of this seminar finally surfaced in all its glory. Luckily, the academics were too engrossed with themselves to notice. Triss thumbed at the hem of her skirt and smoothed out the fabric over her ankles, before bending her arms on the armrests to push up. Gracefully, she sauntered down her row of chairs and approached a lone workbench serving as a countertop for an amber crystal demijohn.

With a swipe of her hand in the air, the cork plopped off the bottle abruptly, and she lifted it by its neck towards one of the empty chalices.

“And what about alchemical symbols, Master Aberthal?”

“Is the elixir of life indeed existent sir?”

“Have you ever encountered someone who’s spiritually reached rubedo, professor?”

Triss’s head was swimming with their questions and the heavy, tangy feel of wine. Why did it matter if the elixir of life existed? It was merely a fanciful title for a concept none of them could ever even begin to grapple with.

Immortality.

Her face twisted marginally against the spice of the wine and she cleared her throat in an attempt to get rid of the aftertaste. Next to her, an open incunabulum lay abandoned on a dusty lectern. With care, she traced the black and golden etchings on the page. It was supposed to be a representation of Mahakam’s structure before the First Landing, according to the inscription, penned in Elder Speech.

_‘Roimh an dh’oine.’_

_Roimh an dh’oine,_ she mused. Before ‘the human’, what was the world like?

Was the air clearer and were the prairies greener?

Did life feel lighter, more like an outlandish adventure rather than a perpetual battle to survive?

Did all their science and alchemical transmutations actually enrich them spiritually, or could it be that they had never stooped lower as a race? Could it be that illness and death were the price they paid for their so-called innovations?

 _Answer me that, Aberthal,_ she thought, _and I will respect you like they do. Answer me and I will never cease applauding you._

_He can’t._

Triss’s fingers flattened against the page, and her eyes shot up, wider than before, no longer focused on the text. She could feel her breath accelerate in her lungs. The husky, crisp voice echoed into her head like a stone hurled at the walls of a large cavern. Her hand twitched on the opened book and her lips tightened. Hiding her face from the men at the front, she screwed her eyes shut and hissed a silencing spell against the reverberations. Tissaia had taught her that trick. Triss thought to remember to thank her whenever their fates crossed again.

She took a discrete step backwards and surveyed the room with her eyes, looking for the source of the voice in her head. It wasn’t in the room.

Cursing under her breath, Triss took a mouthful of wine, gulped it down with a grimace, and with years of training and targeted concentration, put up barriers in her mind. She almost grunted with the effort; she had not resorted to such measures in a while. That was probably the least anticipated direction the evening could have taken. She had been mentally prepared for academic banalities, loud peacocking, and even a potential end-of-the-session contest, at worse.

Unfortunately, her foresight had not stretched so far as to account for the prospect of _Philippa Eilhart_ telepathically communicating with her.

Triss exhaled, angling her head backwards. _Gods give me strength._ If Philippa could tap into her thoughts and transmit magical waves back towards her so clearly, it meant she was close by, somewhere within their vicinity.

“And how about the lady by the archives, then?” Too preoccupied as she was weighing up her situation, Triss didn’t acknowledge the voice calling for her. “Perhaps the lady feels that she has already deciphered all there is to decipher about alchemical theorems?” Aberthal prodded, his voice taking on a contemptuous edge.

Triss could physically feel her blood simmering. She steeled herself and mindfully turned over the book, deciding it was a shame for etchings so profound to be coated with soot and grime. Putting the matter of Philippa to one side, she leisurely spun around, a foxlike grin sweeping over her features. Most of the men were now staring at her; some scornfully, others curiously, and the rest with a heedless nerve that could have only been encouraged by excessive amounts of alcohol.

“Sir Aberthal, allow me to introduce to you,” La Voisier rushed before she could answer, pushing through a group of gawking young men to come to the front. He pointed a hand towards Triss’s general direction. “This is a guest of honor; Triss Merigold, Royal Advisor to King Foltest of Temeria.”

Guest of honor? The accommodation hardly reflected that assertion.

Triss bowed her head modestly before taking confident, svelte strides towards the fore of the room.

“Miss Merigold, I’m sure you’re already familiar with Professor Aberthal, expert in alchemical formulas and mystical artefacts-”

“No, I can’t say that I am,” she remarked, cutting him off. She hoped her smile appeared as disingenuous as it was intended to be. As Triss made her way to him, the group of young aspirants parted so that she could pass. They needn’t have looked so affronted on his behalf. He seemed dismayed enough himself.

Aberthal adjusted his ridiculously tall cap with crow feathers sewn into its crown. His lips were curled unpleasantly.

“I wasn’t aware that such personages would be in attendance today, Jean.”

“It is a delight to meet you too, sir,” Triss’s lips itched from the wide smile she unenthusiastically kept up.

Aberthal raised his chin and stared at her haughtily. “Does your heart burn with the very same curiosity for alchemical evolution which consumes all of us, Miss Merigold?”

No, but it did burn with an equally consuming impulse to knock the bifocals off his face.

“What my heart feels is enormous humility, sir Aberthal, for I, a sorceress, never cease to be amazed by how many alchemical axioms I seem to be oblivious to,” she held his eyes emphatically as they darkened in poorly concealed ire. Her fingertip glided over the stone of her ring. “It was a very enlightening seminar, sir Aberthal,” Triss noted. She clutched tightly at her chalice. “I was especially fascinated by your submissions on the sorcerer’s stone.”

“Philosopher’s stone.”

Triss waved a hand airily. “Semantics,” she cocked a brow, knowing it would irritate him. “What matters most is the substance, hardly the name, don’t you agree?”

On cue, his eyes twitched. His admirers were watching the exchange with rekindled interest. “Indeed,” he acknowledged, lips narrowed. “But you will find a name can hold just as much influence over the masses, Miss Merigold. It is indisputably vital to prudently determine what sort of influence that should be.”

“Indeed,” she too concurred. “It is indisputably vital not to _mislead_ the masses. ” Triss responded, offhandedly, conveying plainly with her intonation what she wasn’t really telling.

Aberthal flushed, and sir Jean La Voisier stuttered in surprise. His eyes switched between them as if he were watching the ball bounce from side to side in a jeu de paume. The young scholars around them were similarly stunned.

Fully clad in a skin-tight silk vest that was one size too small for him, Aberthal looked as if he may rip the seams from heavy breathing. _Indeed,_ she thought. _Your ego is too big for your clothes, kind sir._

Her satisfaction was short-lived, however. Within seconds, Aberthal’s outrage transitioned into a nasty sneer, full of conceit and condescension.

“How farcical it is, gentlemen,” he calmly addressed the young men, swirling his glass of wine, “that a sorceress of all people would see it fit to preach about honesty and scruples to us, when she and her… _brethren_ -”

In the far back left corner of the room, a door was pushed open, the sound of the hinge shifting harsh over Aberthal’s even voice. The man stopped, and glared over her shoulder at whoever dared interrupt him, while Triss herself glowered at him and clasped the chalice so forcefully between her fingertips she feared it may crack. In the moments that followed a myriad ideas flashed before her eyes about how she could make him suffer.

He needn’t have finished the sentence. She knew with certainty what he was going to say, the scathing comments he would have made. She had heard them all already, both before she had been hauled into Aretuza’s chilly halls as a child and after she had ascended her way out of them. Triss had always strived to rise above them, but it was a task easier conceived than executed.

She breathed in an attempt to quell her anger and her eyes gradually lost their bite; instead she observed, perplexed and annoyed, as Aberthal seemingly withdrew into himself, swallowing down whatever insult he was about to regurgitate with a strenuous gulp.

“Please,” she heard from behind her, and as swiftly as it had gone, Triss felt the tension grip at her shoulders again. “Don’t let me disturb you.”

Jean La Voisier cleared his throat. “Lady Eilhart,” he mumbled, in disbelief. For a second it seemed as though he were going to add something, but couldn’t come up with the appropriate words.

Nobody moved.

“Well?” Philippa inquired after a minute of silence too thick. “It appears I have inadvertently interrupted what by all accounts was an edifying and impassioned speech on the likes of Miss Merigold and myself. I apologize sincerely. Do continue, sir.”

Silence.

_Pox on the lot of them._

Triss had neither the patience nor the time for this. With clarity, she realized that in her frustration over Aberthal she had gotten carried away, and lingered in the academics’ company for too long. Her goal had been accomplished already; she had traveled to Oxenfurt by boat and the wandering merchants had taken precise note of her. Outside the gates, she had given her full name to the well-built man with a blabbermouthed wife. In the town square, by the Stranger's Spot, as they called it, where the traders from outside Redania huddled together and earned their living, some Temerians had seen her, and they were sure to spread the word about her arrival in the kingdom amidst their compatriots. She had strolled the Academy grounds with Heron and the students had predictably stared after them as they treaded through the gardens. Everything, from her royal blue pleated skirt to the hand-woven qiviut wrapped around her the bell sleeves of her blouse, had been selected specifically for one purpose only : to draw attention.

It was what King Foltest of Temeria had ordered.

Now Philippa Eilhart, royal advisor to King Vizimir and member of the Council of Mages, had also seen her there. How much more attention could she have possibly drawn?

Resolute, Triss retreated towards one of the workbenches, leaving her drink there with a thump.

She turned back towards Professor La Voisier and ignored Aberthal’s dumbfounded expression. “Professor, I thank you for welcoming me here. It has been an eye-opening experience, but I see the evening has come about us. I ought to take my leave.”

La Voisier’s brow furrowed, but he nodded. “Of course.”

She smiled. It was weak. “I sincerely hope I can return to your noble institution, one day.” She sincerely did not.

“Yes,” he returned the smile. “I would very much appreciate that.” He very much would not.

She seized his hand and shook it firmly on their common understanding. With a bow of her head to the remaining attendants, astonished as they still were, she elegantly twirled and headed for the door. She neither looked up nor spoke as she ambled by Philippa.

Triss was already half-way down the corridor when she felt the heated eyes burning holes through the back of her neck.  
  


……

  
As soon as she had crossed the Redanian border, she set off towards Acorn Bay without a minute’s delay.

It was late, and there was an eerie fog overflying the road track as the horse trotted forward. If she maintained a brisk pace, she could make it to the town within a couple of hours. She wrapped the reins twice around her the back of her palms and nudged the stirrups, urging the mare forward.

The horse whined. It was evidently wary of pushing through the fog.

“Come now, jade,” she whispered, bending forth to pat the mare’s neck gently. “It’s only mist.”

After a few more coos and soothing words, the mare moved.

Triss found the slow and even tempo of its movements assuasive. She allowed herself to sink further down the saddle, shoulders sagging in relief. It had been a grueling two weeks filled with daylong travels, sophisticated guises and knavish smiles.

Temeria’s misfortunes the past year had called for unorthodox measures. Throughout the realm, from Cleves to Vizima, a terrible smallpox epidemic had scourged through the moors and the villages, leaving nothing but putrid flesh and macabre quietude in its wake. Entire hamlets had been left dilapidated and vacant. Where warmth from the hearth once used to permeate the huts, now only sinister pall could be felt. On the sides of the streets lay abandoned carts full of rotten cadavers, covered only with filthy rags and clouts, reeking of decease and sickness.

If doom were a sound, it was that of children’s labored and anguished last breaths.

Triss had been in Maribor. From there she had opened a portal to the county of Moën, where the images of horror had first confronted her.

Silence in the streets. Corpses concealed under broad quilts in the sandlots. Pale and scabby toes had been poking out beneath the hems. Some had been big, and some had been small. Too small. Triss had averted her eyes, but no matter how much further down the roads she looked, the same visions plagued her. And the people… the few remaining ones without blisters and vomit stains on their tattered clothes, had stared at her as if she were a dream, with lackadaisical eyes and trembling lips.

For seventeen days and nights she had dwelled on the pathways, journeying from Moën to Anchor and back. She had carried ointments and small urns with balms in her saddlebags, stopping at the roads to treat anyone in need. Schisandra, dried lavender, the leaves of feverfew. Mashed hyssop for the coughs, fenugreek with melted butter for the fever. Nightshade, at the proper dosage, enhanced by her spells for the shortage of breath. Pacifying murmurs and otiose assurances for their aching hearts. Though she could not be infected by the sickness, she had been infected by their sorrows, their lackluster eyes, the folly of their last few ravings. She had seen mothers wheeze out prayers in their deathbeds, tots losing their light with lethargic smiles curling on their faces. She had puked her guts out and she had wept noiselessly, biting down on her fist as she watched a young pregnant girl draw a frail last breath into her lungs burrowed under Triss’s cashmere shawl.

She had wanted to burn everything after. All her clothes and all her jewelry.

And yet she knew she had seen nothing. From Vizima, merchants and drifters had brought news of more death and illness. Triss had wondered why they had traveled back south, where they were sure to meet their end themselves.

“We’ve no place else to go, m’Lady,” the short man with crooked teeth had said. “The roads to Dorndal and Ellander are blocked by Prince Hereward’s guards. Falwick and The Order wedges a halberd in the bowels of anyone who so much as sputters.”

“And Redania, m’Lady,” his companion spat. “They set blockades near the Pontar, too. You need a letter of safe conduct and proof you’re journeying from a clean region to get through.”

That had been the last she’d heard from them.

On the twelfth sunrise, she had been called to the King’s castle.

She did not go. It was madness, what took over her. A nameless wrath, a feeling so helpless and sickening she thought the impossible might have happened; she had gotten smallpox herself.

Three days later, as she was leaving the stables to start on the road to Anchor one more time, her eyes had bulged at the sight of Keira Metz, clad in a lavish gown, stroking a steed’s mane just a few leaps away. She looked as if her figure had been painted onto the wrong canvas; too healthy and neat to fit in a landscape so deserted as this.

“Neither the Common nor the Elder Speech could ever possess a vast enough lexicon to adequately convey how big of a debt you owe me, Triss,” she stated, not taking her eyes off the horse. Triss stood motionless with baited breath. “Leaving me to deal with Foltest’s yakking and Willemer’s proselytizing by myself while you’re out here tinkering with botanicals.”

Despite her ire, she stayed silent. If she knew Keira at all, she knew there were more wisecracks to follow.

After a beat of silence, Keira sighed, long-sufferingly. She stepped back from the horse, and stared at Triss, the glint in her eyes inscrutable. It turned out, perhaps she hadn’t known Keira that well after all.

“Two days,” she offered, her voice apathetic and firm. “Two more days. That is all the time I can give you in this accursed place. No longer, Triss.”

And so, on the seventeenth day, Triss had packed her saddlebags, folded away some emollient substances and medicinal herbs in the innkeeper’s shelves, and left. She had portalled herself there. She had not wanted to see more of the walking dead.

Alas, luck was rarely ever on Triss’s side. She had spent the summer in Vizima, healing anyone she could get her hands on outside the castle, with Keira muttering curses and sneering disdainfully beside her. But she had helped. And after a seemingly endless stretch of decease, healing and passing flasks of rum between the two of them, at the dawn of autumn, as the first leaves quivered and danced their way to the dirt, the sickness subsided.

Perhaps Willemer’s God took pity on his subjects.

Perhaps the priestesses in Melitele struck a bargain with their prayers.

Perhaps Triss’s sleepless nights were others’ chance to witness the glorious sun another day.

Whatever it had been, did not matter. In late October, King Foltest’s orders had been clear and unequivocal :

“Travel,” he had roared. “Travel and let them see you. To spread the message that Temeria is as strong as it has ever been. We will not be defeated by some untimely illness.”

Some untimely illness _. Tell that to the orphaned children, the empty villages, the widows and the dead,_ Triss had lamented in her head. But she had packed her tired mare once more, and gone on her way, making sure to travel through all the forks in the roads, pass by the smallest of dwellings.

Off headed Triss to the west, and Keira to the northeast. One of them in Redania and Cidaris, the other in Kaedwen and Aedirn. The third, Fercart of Cidaris, had stayed behind upon the King’s demand.

She did it because she loved Temeria. And despite his many shortcomings, King Foltest also loved Temeria, and that was as decent enough a reason to stay loyal as any.

……

Just about a mile outside of town, Triss tugged harshly at the reins and the horse marched to a stop. With exertion, she leaped off the mare and ran a hand through her hair. She stood in front of a forked road.

The fog had dispelled soon after she had crossed the first few marches, but an ostensibly sourceless bleariness persisted in the air, as if the night sky was delaying, too slowly revealing its bright stars. Neither the Serpent nor the Dragon were visible to the naked eye. There were no constellations shining tonight. Just an unending stretch of black void.

She bit her lip and tipped her head back.

A majestic owl nestled onto a camperdown elm tree stared down at her intently.

“Why are you following me?”

The owl fluttered its eyes rapidly and tilted its head sharply.

With her hands on her hips, Triss looked out towards the woods. She was exhausted.

“Reveal yourself,” she whispered, her voice carried over with the wind. “I’m tired.”

Nothing.

“Please, Philippa.”

In a flash, the owl dived down fast over the long road, transforming into Philippa’s form almost effortlessly. It was a remarkable sight.

She was wearing a man’s doublet and dark grey, snug pants. Her hair was tied back into a long braid, and her eyes were so dark Triss could see the stars mirrored in them; entire new-found constellations of their own.

Triss breathed quietly. “Why are you following me?” She asked again.

“That’s quite an assumption you’ve made there, Triss.”

She bowed her head, staring at some blades of grass next to Philippa’s boots. “Is it incorrect?”

“No.”

Triss’s eyes snapped up. For some unknown reason, she felt her ire spike.

“You know, I should be livid with you,” she remarked heatedly, digging a nail in the heel of her palm, “considering the mess you dropped me in a few years ago.”

Philippa walked closer, face unreadable. She reached out with her hand, and Triss flinched, uncertain of her intentions. But she breathed in relief as Philippa’s fingers landed on the horse’s forehead in a soft, almost tender touch. If Philippa noticed, she said nothing.

“And are you?” Philippa murmured.

Triss frowned. “Yes,” she realized with a fright. She _was_ angry. “Yes I am.”

“How disappointing.”

Triss’s eyes toughened. For as long as she could remember, she had tended to associate Philippa with feelings of fear, reverence and admiration. When she had been a young novice in Aretuza, enthralling tales of the sorceress who had mastered polymorphy often made the rounds amidst her classmates. Tissaia de Vries, the principal of the Academy at the time, had somewhat begrudgingly mentioned Philippa several times during her training. Triss could tally the rare occasions on the fingers of one palm, but recall them with commendable precision all the same.

Once, when Marti Södergren, just a few years older than her, had used mortar and pestle to mix one too many calamus roots with white peonies and had subsequently triggered a scandalous mass increase in estrogen levels in her class. They had all been summoned to the dining hall and they had been subjected to a thorough and stern diatribe on the restricted use of combined herbs and aphrodisiacs. Tissaia, amongst other teachers, had been present and all-too-willing to join in the reprimanding. “Is this how you think famed sorceresses like Francesca Findabair and Philippa Eilhart made a name for themselves?” She had asked, tone scathing and eyes ice cold. “Do you believe they spent the odd spare noon meddling with libido stimulants and other such nonsense? Do you want to be sex intermediaries or royal advisors, girls? Now is the time to decide.”

Twice more, when Triss had failed repeatedly to complete a trial on redistribution of force within the appropriate timeframe. “Focus, Triss! I’ve had students who could manage this in half the time it takes you to prepare for the spell! What would your dear friend Yennefer say if she saw you be so indolent? How can you hope to walk the same halls as the likes of Philippa Eilhart and Vilgefortz of Roggeveen? Focus, damn it!” And later, “Pox on me if this is what I’ll be presenting to the Council in the ascension ceremony. You will be the night’s laughing stock for Philippa and Radcliffe, Triss. Stregobor will make fools out of you and me both. Get it together!”

One last time, a fortnight before her final assessments. “I am proud of you, little one,” Tissaia had taken a long drag off her pipe, and rearranged the papers on her desk with extremely meticulous care. If Triss hadn’t known better, she would have guessed Tissaia was uncomfortable with the discussion she herself had initiated. But with a small and heartfelt smile, she had pushed on. “As proud as I have ever been of your dear Yennefer and the dainty Margarita Laux-Antille. Even nearly as proud as I’d been of Philippa Eilhart, little one.”

Fear, reverence and admiration.

Currently replaced with severe irritation.

“Forgive me, Philippa, for not scrambling to my knees in expression of my eternal gratitude for your selfless aid with Temeria’s problems,” she fumed. “However could I repay you for single-handedly precipitating recession in steel exports and sword production for an entire year?”

Philippa’s brow bounced. “Lose the sarcasm, for one.”

“I was just getting started.”

“Well un-start yourself,” Philippa tsked disparagingly. “Your anger is disappointing because it would indicate that you had anticipated a different outcome from our conversation in Nimnar. I assumed you knew better, Triss. It seems that I was mistaken.”

Triss clenched her teeth so hard her jaw ached. “I had hoped-”

“What you hope for is none of my concern, Triss,” Philippa interrupted harshly. “I am not saying this to spite you; it is merely an unpleasant but necessary truth. What you wish is for you and only you to know and manage to accomplish. Don’t expect others to walk the extra mile in your stead.”

Gone was the subtle conviviality Triss had sensed back when she had first met Philippa and later, during that fateful banquet near Nimnar. In its place, a sheen of austerity and aloofness was ensconced in the depths of her eyes. The duplicity gave Triss somewhat of an emotional whiplash. She had heard stories before, of how talented an advisor Philippa was, of her immense influence and authority over those whom she considered paramount in the smooth advancement of her plans.

She remembered Yenna’s advice to her a week before the night of her ascension – one of the last conversations they had held before her friend vanished from the face of the earth; untraceable and unreachable. Yennefer had been adamant in Triss knowing a select few intricacies about every key character she was going to be meeting on the day.

“… And Philippa Eilhart – you’ve heard of her, I am certain,” she had hissed, unwillingly, as Triss had looped the knot at the back of her dress a bit too tightly. Triss had muttered an apology and nodded in confirmation. “Steer clear of her until Tissaia indicates otherwise. She will no doubt attempt to pull you out of your comfort zone. Do not attempt to dominate the conversation; you can never succeed, and you will only ridicule yourself in the process. She’s older, wiser and sharper – don’t scowl, your wrinkles are growing deeper. If you ever feel like you are gaining the upper hand, do not for a second question it : it will be merely because _she_ is allowing it to happen.”

“How comforting,” Triss had sighed dramatically.

Yennefer had twisted in front of her, stilling Triss’s hands, her eyes stern.

“Drop the childish act – listen to me. When you’re talking to her, pretend you’re only as bright as the rest of them. Giggle, drink, mingle. Do not, however, act smart. Because if she sees something more in you, if she feels you seek to challenge or outwit her, she will not back down. Do you hear me, Triss? She will not stop.” Yennefer’s eyes had flashed. “Pretend.”

_Pretend._

Right now, she didn’t have to. Philippa’s unyielding gaze truly did make her want to crawl out of her own skin, and she knew not to push the imperceptible but very much extant limits of her luck. With dread, she further realized that a minor pain was ceaselessly nicking at her chest. Her lungs felt constricted, as if someone had them by the palm of their hand and was gradually tightening the hold.

It _hurt_ to be dismissed like that. Triss swallowed down the humiliation; once again, like that day at Nimnar when she had thought sharing hand-picked information with Philippa would work in her favor, she had failed to heed Yennefer’s warning. She had rushed her hand and overvalued her own intellect.

Philippa suddenly sighed, breaking Triss’s contemplation. She scratched at the mare’s muzzle one last time before moving back, her eyes on Triss.

“We all carve out our own paths, Triss. When you gave me that information in Nimnar, I did not hesitate to do what I saw fit for the kingdom I serve, despite being wholly aware of how compromising a position that would force you in. I do not deny it. That is because I know I will outlive all of these Kings and their misfortunes, as will you. There is incalculable time for mages to argue, shatter trust and then mend it, again and again, with no real consequence to the world. For better or for worse, this is a luxury that our kingdoms cannot afford, so when a fork in the path presents itself, they must come first.” Philippa nodded towards the two dirt tracks spanning out in opposite directions in front of them.

Triss did not spare a glance towards them. She already knew which one she would pick. Her eyes were unwavering, fixed on Philippa’s profile.

Even the razor-sharp angles of her features alluded to how dangerous she was.

Philippa’s eyes returned to Triss’s face, indecipherable. “You are young and you are passionate, and you have yet to appreciate the simply flitting significance of those incidents you now so vehemently perceive as ultimate betrayals. I will not hold it against you. Trying times will soon be upon us, and in spite of what your youthful logic may suggest, Triss, you must know that I am not the enemy.”

“Neither foe nor friend,” she mused and her lips curled bitterly. “What are you to me then, Philippa?”

There was nothing but deliberate apathy reigning over Philippa’s face.

“What I am to you _now,_ Triss Merigold, is not nearly of as much import,” she stated with a lilted but nonetheless sober-sided voice, “as what I could be when it counts the most.”

In her head, she imagined herself thrusting a pointer finger at the velvet stitches of Philippa’s doublet as she launched heartfirst into a thorough objurgation about how Temeria’s trying times had already been upon them, about the amount of times already Triss had wanted to flip her insides out at the sight of blood and spew and human excrements pooling at the hem of her dress. In her head, she remembered the time Yennefer had told her there was no worse embarrassment for a sorceress than to weep openly and wondered, not for the first time in the past decade or so, if perhaps she simply was not cut from appropriate cloth to be a sorceress.

Prosaic platitudes drummed into her head since her adolescence and forced repressions of any particular emotion other than thirst for power. Plays on words and nonsensical retorts.

 _Now is of the same import to me, Philippa,_ she thought.

She grasped at the reins of her mare softly. The horse puffed a cloud of air and trailed further away from Philippa, to her side.

A true, sorrowful smile rounded at Triss’s lips. She did not feel shame for it.

“Now,” she whispered, “is the only time I know.”

Triss did not loiter in front of the fork for a moment longer.

……


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Philippa pursed her lips and raised her chin, only watching for a while longer as the younger woman hurried away, towards the path for Acorn Bay. No sweet words to encourage the mare forward, but harsh pulling at the reigns and what sounded like an exasperated threat whispered in its neck.
> 
> If only you realized, she thought. If only you realized how mistaken you are, young one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pea-sized brain : 'winter is coming'

**Parenthesis I :  
Barbed Wire Does The Doe**

_“Submerged the maiden moves and shudders,_

_Further, nearer, all at once,_

_As all the seamen seize the rudders,_

_Furtively scouting for their chance_

_‘Begone!’ bellow the waves unfettered_

_And shake their jolly boats askance,_

_‘No need that all you great men fretted,_

_This is not death; but ill fate’s dance.’_

**_\- A Collection of Master Jaskier’s Unused Verses,_ ** **Oxenfurt Academy  
(c. 1390)**

_……_

In Oxenfurt Academy, she strode down the corridor with firm resolve, unwavering purpose and a solemn look on her face. Behind her two young gofers rushed after, trying, but failing to catch up. There were two main thoughts racing through her mind at the time :

Firstly, whoever had been embezzling funds from the Secret Service’s trust account was soon going to attain a very, _very_ intimate understanding of Drakenborg’s cell walls. Secondly, someone in the Academy was going to have to lose their job that day, and Philippa cared very little for whom that may end up being. Thus, if the two saps behind her wanted to keep earning their fair day’s pay, they had better stopped yelling after her as if she were just another common visitor and not someone who could promptly rip their tongues out with a flick of her wrist had she wished to.

“Miss!”

“Miss, you have no clearance for this area!”

Philippa rolled her eyes and turned sharply to the left, towards the Chancellor’s office. With no warning she pushed the wooden doors open and a personal assistant no older than thirty years old jumped up like a spring, hastily running from behind his bureau to greet her.

“Lady Eilhart,” he stammered, and Philippa dismissed him with a raised hand. It was not a day for pleasantries. The assistant, unperturbed and most probably desensitized to such treatment, bowed and shooed away the two pesky minions. She marched straight to the back of the room, where Nicodemus de Boot had remained seated, seemingly calm despite the commotion.

It was admirable, and was foolish, because now he had nowhere else to sink but further back in his chair.

“Lady Eilhart, to what gales of fate do we owe this immeasurable honor?”

“Spare me the verbose politesse, de Boot,” Philippa spread her palms on the desk, leaning forward with a dangerous glint in her eyes and a dark edge to her voice. Nicodemus hadn’t moved, but his hands strained on the armrests of his seat. “Who else has had access to the top floor of this building in the last month?”

“No one, of cour-”

“Nicodemus,” Philippa’s words were laced with a sweetness so quaint and eerie, he had no option but to heed her unspoken admonition. “I do not like repeating myself, but for a learned man such as yourself, I will make an exception. Just once.” Her smile was chilling. “Who else, other than myself and our shared acquaintance, has had access to the top floor?”

Nicodemus de Boot, silently aghast and hard-pressed to do anything but swallow down his pride, sighed, straightened up, and talked.

……

Giancardi’s bank had always been accommodating with the Redanians’ many and undeniably, at times, odd requests. Molnar Giancardi, a wise and educated dwarf, had known better than to ever demand needless explanations or ask an excessive amount of prodding questions.

Philippa very much respected him for that, which had been the sole reason why she had not slowly and demonstratively choked the life out of the Novigradian superintendent when he had revealed to her that false letters of credit and missing assets had been indeed reported to the bank a fortnight prior to her visit.

However, she had no intention of exhibiting the same level of tolerance towards whoever had acquired confidential information in the Academy. At the sight of the deadly gleam swirling in her irises, the superintendent had swiftly informed her that the latest provided piece of documentation had borne an aureate wax seal on which two crossed keys were embossed. The insignia had been entirely insignificant; an ambitious but lousy misdirection.

It was the color of the seal that Philippa was well familiar with. There was only one place in the whole of the Continent which still utilized that archaic wax stamp – Oxenfurt Academy.

On her way from Nicodemus de Boot’s office to Jean La Voisier’s class, in a different department, Philippa pondered; she thought about King Vizimir and his growing softness after his son’s birth, the Brotherhood’s increasingly irrelevant practices, the Nilfgaardian Emperor who stood unimpeded on the North’s doorstep. Philippa thought about the fact that she had a multitude of more critical matters to be taking care of instead of engaging in a wild goose chase led by a weak paper trail.

Alas, she walked on, more determined than ever to get this over with and carry on with her journey to Gors Velen.

So focused as she was, it was then understandably just a tad too distracting to sense an intense discomfort in her head – a sentiment not very familiar to her psyche. Philippa felt projected thoughts reaching out to her mind, fingers of a distant conscience tapping at the crevices of her brain. Despite it, she remained expressionless as the young man in front of her navigated the long vestibules effortlessly, showing her the way to the professor’s main study room.

“On such short notice, I-” the curly-haired boy stammered, “I’ve had no time to tidy the space, Miss. I apologize.”

He was kind-hearted, she noted. Or afraid. Perhaps a healthy mixture of both. It made no difference to her, for her own kindness had been expended for the evening. Either way, he had not complained once for being unceremoniously yanked out of his own laboratory by the lapels of his jacket as Nicodemus ordered him to accompany her to his mentor’s premises. She appreciated it merely because the alternative would have irked her, and she had grown weary of all this irritation for one day.

“No need,” she stated, offering nothing more.

The faint uneasiness returned.

_…dh’oine._

Philippa’s brow furrowed only marginally. _Roimh an dh’oine…_

“I’m sure the reason for your visit must be of tremendous importance,” the kind-hearted but nevertheless apparently incapable-of-remaining-silent boy continued. “Professor La Voisier almost never rushes seminars, but I assume if they notify him you are here, well…” he opened a door to an empty office.

 _…illness and death were the price they paid for…_ A faraway feeling of anger condensed in a bottle, airtight like a storm brewing in the confines of a glassy dome.

“… It must certainly be a pleasure for him to have not one but two esteemed members of the Brotherhood in his presence today. His seminar is after all also being attended by-”

_Answer me that, Aberthal and I will respect you like they do. Answer me and I will never cease applauding you._

“Merigold,” Philippa pursed her lips. _Addressing all her questions to oblivious narcissists who could never even fathom an appropriate response._

“Indeed!” The boy exclaimed, mysteriously excited. “You are familiar with Miss Merigold?”

She hummed to herself. A curious turn of events. “Indicate the way to this… seminar, and then you are dismissed.”

It was not too long a distance from one place to another. But long enough for Philippa to smirk to herself in anticipation.

 _He can’t._ She husked in her head, and was not surprised to find the connection broken not long after.

……

It had been one of Voisier’s clerks. He had found a stack of papers at the top floor during one of Voisier’s sessions there, left behind by someone who was sure to be in an inordinate amount of trouble after Philippa’s letter to Dijkstra had been delivered.

If she had been vaguely unpleasant and passive-aggressive in her wording for being the one to put up with ceaseless academic grandeur for a whole day, that was her business.

And if she had carefully neglected to mention a certain Temerian sorceress in it – well, that was her business, too.

……

She had spotted the apprehension on Triss’s shoulders when she had barged into the seminar, and she had taken note of the distrust in her eyes. So she had followed her, soon after her business concluded in the Academy, in the wilderness, to clear the air.

Philippa peered into her eyes and relayed to her what Triss had needed to hear. Even if that did not necessarily align with what the younger woman had _wanted_ to hear.

And Triss’s eyes flared with a heat lent only to targeted glares and low-whispered secrets in stark black alleyways, and she murmured, “now is the only time I know.”

Philippa pursed her lips and raised her chin, only watching for a while longer as the younger woman hurried away, towards the path for Acorn Bay. No sweet words to encourage the mare forward, but harsh pulling at the reigns and what sounded like an exasperated threat whispered in its neck.

_If only you realized,_ she thought. _If only you realized how mistaken you are, young one._

If only she realized that the world was changing, and it would not spare mercy for any of them, because change did not discriminate, and neither did ill fate. Philippa saw it unfold in her mind, the vision of long shadows cast over Triss’s young and benign soul, a hefty lump of dark matter taking up space where her heart was meant to beat. It was going to wear her down, this future she could not see, trap her ruthlessly in its claws like barbed wire does the helpless doe by the edge of the meadows.

And she would have to crawl and scratch her own way out of it. It was a cruel but necessary lesson.

So Philippa let her go, heavy with the foresight that whenever they next saw each other, Triss would have learnt it.

……


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Thank you,” Triss offered, almost inaudible as she burrowed further in Yennefer’s shoulder. But she knew Yennefer had heard her. “I really do wish you would attend,” she added, for good measure.
> 
> At the absence of a reply, she settled in further and exhaled leisurely on the little hairs of Yennefer’s clavicle. The chosen quiet felt an awful lot like guilt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> galaxy brain : sodden is coming

**Parenthesis II :  
Three Decades of Nothing  
  
**

“ _On my restless quest for truth in tales not involving the famed White Wolf, I found very little information of credibility on Lady Yennefer of Vengerberg._

_Though a short statement once caught my attention; not found in books or paintings but amidst chatter of northern folklore by a few journeymen, on the grueling road from Tridam to Yspaden. For the first time in my lengthy search for reliable material, the man’s contention was not about Geralt of Rivia or Princess Cirilla._

_It went something like this :_

_‘Yennefer of Vengerberg had a friend._

_There had never been a friend whom she had cherished more._

_There had never been a friend who had hurt her more.’_

_I reveal this not because it constituted the first rare piece of information I deemed authentic, but because it was so ludicrous that its absurdity deserved a mention all on its own._

_Yennefer of Vengerberg? A friend?_

_Even more preposterous was his headstrong assertion that this so-called friend had been none other than the Great Martyr,_

_Triss Merigold of Maribor.”_

**\- K, _‘Yennefer of Vengerberg’_ in _The Untold Tales of Legendary Northern Characters  
_ (c. 1488)**

In the late hours of the evening, as Triss prepared for an early retreat to her comfortable bed, a knock on her door prompted her to place her hairbrush back on the vanity and swiftly card her fingers through the tangles in her curls.

“Come in!”

Tissaia de Vries, with her hands joined authoritatively in front of her stomach and a look in her eyes which transcended any human concept of malaise, cleared her throat.

“Triss.”

Triss’s eyebrow wrinkled. “Rectoress,” she replied, bowing her head slightly.

“How are you faring today?”

“Well, my Lady.”

“Good,” sighed Tissaia. Her eyes landed on the dark blue bottle lying askance next to her mirror. “You were clearly about to retire for the night. Forgive me for the disturbance.”

Triss glanced over her shoulder towards the vanity. She must have knocked the vial over in her haste to greet the unannounced guest. Quickly she picked it up and secured the cork over it. Thankfully, nothing much had spilled on the oak wood. Mandrake elixir was very expensive and in short supply, even here.

Still, she dabbed intently at the miniscule stains left behind with a black kerchief.

It would not do to leave things in disorder in front of Tissaia.

Triss folded the fabric over carefully and used it to wipe down the crevices between her fingers.

“Please,” she started and smiled reassuringly, though she doubted Tissaia ever needed any such comfort. “You could never disturb me, Rectoress.”

Tissaia hummed, gaze still fixed on the elixir. She stalked closer. The expression of her face was yet to morph into something less uncomfortable.

“Let me be brief,” stated Tissaia suddenly. “Despite your reassurances I do in fact feel that I have interrupted somewhat of a nightly ritual, and it does not bode well for my conscience.”

Triss said nothing in challenge of the barefaced lie. Tissaia had once ordered a pail of ice-cold water chucked over a young novice’s face after she had overslept the evening assembly.

“It has come to my attention that you have arranged a meeting with someone two days from now, in Loxia.”

Triss lowered the cloth, and gently threw it to the bin near her. She absently rubbed her hands together as she clasped them behind her back.

“Yes,” she hesitated. “I had requested authorization prior to the arrangement, of course.”

“Of course. The fact that you were forthwith granted that permission has also not escaped my notice.”

Triss pursed her lips. They were talking circles around a subject which Triss had long realized made for an awfully sore spot in Tissaia’s emotions.

“Is that to your disliking, Mistress?” Asked Triss humbly.

Tissaia’s jaw tightened. She glanced away for only a second before pinning Triss with her eyes again.

“Whether it is to my liking or not is irrelevant,” she stated, very matter-of-factly. “We are both well aware you are one of the most promising students Aretuza has fostered. I could not refuse the demand even if I wished to. Your other instructors honored it unanimously.”

 _Does that mean you do not wish to?_ Triss thought to herself.

“I am here because I want you to do something for me, Triss.”

Triss frowned, perplexed, but smiled weakly nonetheless. “Anything,” she assured, “Tissaia.”

“… I would like you to pass on a message.”

……

Triss had felt the magic aura advancing towards her before she even heard the dry remark.

“Heady fragrances and impractical rings. You’ve not changed one bit, Triss.”

She could not help herself; not that she even attempted to. With a throaty laugh and sparkling eyes, Triss turned and all but threw herself at Yennefer. Nevermind her friend’s hackneyed insults. She had missed her fiery eyes and sharp wit terribly.

“Oh Yenna,” she exclaimed. Her arms were tightly wound around Yennefer’s neck. “I am so happy to see you.”

“Easy, Triss,” her voice betrayed her eye-roll. “It’s much too early in the morning for such levels of enthusiasm. I hope this isn’t what I’ll have to put up with for the next two days?”

“Of course not.” Triss assured, lying through her teeth. She leaned back and after a moment’s thought quickly stole a kiss from the corner of Yennefer’s lips, with an unreserved ease only a precious friend could afford. Despite her apparent displeasure, Yennefer’s palms sent faint tendrils of warmth spiraling up her back.

“Such a child,” Yennefer tsked.

Triss bit her lip and wagged her eyebrows. “Not anymore.”

Yennefer raised a brow. “That is exactly what a child would say.”

“Yennefer,” Triss protested playfully. She pulled away and walked languidly backwards towards the refined mahogany pew. She took Yennefer in eagerly.

Clad in a black leather vest fastened over a white shirt and tight riding slacks with black lace cross-stitched at the sides, Yennefer looked as alluring and dangerous as always.

“I was too quick to talk,” Yennefer’s own eyes unhurriedly measured Triss up. “You _have_ changed, quite finely so.”

Triss patted down the fabric of her sea green dress and sat down. With a mischievous tilt of her head, she regarded Yennefer coyly. She laid an elbow on the back of the pew and placed her head atop her fist thoughtfully.

“Did you ever doubt it?”

“Oh you’ve grown bolder, too.”

Triss huffed a laugh. “You say that as if it were a bad thing.”

Yennefer shook her head. She stalked closer, swiftly casting her gaze around the gardens. “Not bad at all,” she murmured. “Pleasantly surprising.”

Triss nodded, her lips twisting agreeably. “Thank you.”

With a sigh, Yennefer settled down beside Triss. From this perspective, her eyelashes curled so extensively and intensely that they became almost more distracting than the smoldering violet of her irises.

“Mm,” Yennefer mumbled. She draped herself languorously over the pew, seemingly drained. “You’re welcome.”

Triss grinned and leaned closer. “How was your trip?”

“I portalled myself to Gors Velen. You can imagine the rest.”

“Portalled from where?”

“Hagge.”

“Hagge!” Triss exclaimed. “Did you wander in any of the markets there? I heard they have some of the loveliest necklaces, with pearls and carnelian agate gemstones imported from Bremervoord. Perhaps you even managed to sneak-”

“Triss?”

“Yes, Yenna?”

“Shut up, dear.”

…...

“You _did_ sneak some jewelry in!” Triss gasped at the striking dark amethyst pendant attached to a burnished silver chain.

Yennefer scoffed. “I’m not some uncouth opium contrabandist. I didn’t have to sneak anything in.”

Triss frowned. When the exchange from Aretuza to Loxia happened every once in a lonesome blue moon, novices were very judiciously supervised at all times of day. Any arranged visitor who was not amongst the usual clients had to declare themselves to the Registry of Arrivals, and if they were to meet one of the adepts then the restrictions were even more rigorous. Handing over any objects to the pupils was strictly forbidden.

In fact, most of the time visitors did not get to see the students at all.

Their permitted meeting was a spectacular exception to the rule.

“Don’t frown, it’s unbecoming of you,” Yennefer waved her hand away and instantly a couple of her capes started folding themselves. “I am well familiar with one of the teachers here. She knows I wish you no harm.”

_Tissaia?_

Yennefer halted her movements. Her eyes hardened.

“No.”

Triss had not realized she was projecting her thoughts. It happened to her quite often and was a fault she had to work on prior to the graduation. But she said nothing in lieu of an apology; she knew that the more she stayed on the topic the faster the mood would dampen.

“You know,” she started, toying with the tortoise shell comb Yennefer had deposited in front of her mirror. “I was informed I could invite you to the ceremony, if I desired to.”

Yennefer hummed. Her hands did not leave the phials she was organizing.

“And who did so graciously inform you?”

Triss shrugged. “The Board.”

“Who?”

Triss pressed her lips tightly. She had been trying to shift the conversation towards safer territory and yet here they were, once again at an impasse. Of course Yennefer pressed to find out more.

“Lady Laux-Antille.”

Yennefer stared at Triss over her shoulder intently. Despite the calmness of her voice, Triss saw the forceful movement with which she placed one of her vases down on the surface of the counter.

“If you’re going to lie to me, Triss, you had better put some more effort into it,” she stated. “I know Margarita; in fact, she’s the one who let me bring the gifts in the first place. If it had been her who had made such a laughable suggestion – though I don’t put it above her – I would have had her whistling to me about it by the fourth glass of wine we shared.”

Triss sighed. “Yenna…”

“Don’t ‘Yenna’ me, little minx. I’m fresh out of tolerance for childish games. Whatever it is that you’ve been soft-shoeing around, spit it out.” Yennefer’s harsh tone served its purpose. Triss laid the necklace back on its velvet casing and lowered her eyes, slightly embarrassed.

“No one suggested it. I merely thought if I brought it up I could perhaps convince you of actually going through with it.”

Yennefer shook her head disapprovingly at the wall. “Is this an early demonstration of your behavior during the ascension ceremony, Triss? Then I want no part in it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“And yet you’re still untruthful,” Yennefer turned. Her knuckles had whitened over the edge of the counter.

Triss exhaled softly before standing up from Yennefer’s bed. Yennefer had always been so horribly effective in getting her to spill her guts out. She moved over slowly towards the other woman, fingers fidgeting.

“It is only because I would hate to spoil our time together,” Triss whispered. She herself wanted no part in the predicament her dear friend Yennefer of Vengerberg and her similarly dear Mistress Tissaia de Vries had dropped themselves in. It had been spawned by a conflict well before Triss’s time and most likely to remain well after she left Aretuza, too.

Yet she had no choice, had she? Tissaia had specifically asked that Triss invite Yennefer to the ball.

Triss would have asked her anyway, but now there was no way of avoiding the inevitable confrontation that followed.

Yennefer’s eyes narrowed marginally. Finally, it clicked.

“Sending others to do her bidding? How very clichéd,” Yennefer looked away, voice laced with poison.

Triss was stunned to feel her chest constricting.

She could not hide the affronted expression on her face. She was feeling equal measures hurt and insulted. “I was hardly _sent_ here, Yennefer. I am here because I’ve been so excited to see your face again that I’ve hardly been able to focus on any of the preparations for the ceremony. I’m here because I want to hear about what you’ve been up to, I want to quaff down wine and eat and maybe gossip with my dear friend about the most piffling matters before I’m to be thrown in at the proverbial deep end!”

“Are you quite finished?”

“Quite not.” Triss hissed. Her newfound confidence was easily fueled by her burning frustration. “I consider that by now we have formed a close enough rapport wherein I am allowed to speak honestly and without reservations to you – am I mistaken in holding that belief?”

“Anything less than absolute sincerity would only disappoint me.”

“Then allow me to _sincerely_ stress how much it upsets me to have been hauled into the midst of a feud with Tissaia which I want nothing to do with,” Triss ran a hand through her hair, “and how much more distressing is the fact that you genuinely think I’m here in a hopeless attempt to ambush you on her behalf.”

Yennefer’s brows bounced. “A feud? How infantile a description.”

“ _Yenna.”_ She pressed. She came to a stall in front of her friend. Yennefer was always so irritatingly composed, but Triss was almost frothing at the mouth in exasperation. She felt so far out of depth; a feeling so humiliating and inconsolable, and she wondered if _this_ multiplied by infinity was what she should be preparing for during her ascension ceremony. “Please. I would have begged you to come regardless. Believe me.”

Violet eyes jumped back and forth between Triss’s own. After a few beats of silence, Yennefer let out a long-suffering sigh. “Simmer down, Triss,” she ordered with a tone both allaying Triss’s worries and leaving no room for further argument. “I believe you.”

She exhaled in relief and offered Yennefer a watery smile and crinkling eyes. “Thank you,” she replied. “Now, as it is clear no amount of groveling will convince you of attending, let’s discuss something more pleasant.”

Apparently, her tone had been overly suggestive. “Men?” Yennefer sneered.

Triss scoffed and toyed with the ring on her finger. “Not much to talk about. Once you’ve seen one, you’ve seen all of them.”

“Spoken like a true connoisseur of the nether male parts…”

Triss’s teeth worried her bottom lip. “I’ve had few trysts. But those are stories for another time. Now, let’s discuss about-”

“Oh yes,” Yennefer nodded, cutting her short. “Let’s discuss those preparations you haven’t been focused on, instead.”

Triss rolled her eyes and thumped her head against Yennefer’s chest with a tortured groan.

……

“Make sure to forgo the fur capelet as well. Chances are Dorregaray will be attending; the last thing you need is to get caught up in an hour-long sermon about the Continent’s endangered species.”

“I’ve met him before,” Triss quipped in absently. She added some coriander to the pot and steadily stirred the broth inside. Ironic how so many sorceresses preferred to cast illusions over actually cooking; Triss found the small and mindless task extremely soothing. “I rather enjoyed his sermons.”

Even though she could not see it, she could _feel_ Yennefer’s eye roll.

“Come over here,” she instructed. “I need you to do the laces on my back.”

Triss hummed and quickly raised the wooden spoon to her lips. She blew some air on it and took a sip, face screwing up against the still cold soup. It could do with a bit more salt and a lot more affection from the flames underneath it.

“Just a moment,” she muttered and took a pinch of salt from a nearby bowl, sprinkling it in the pot.

She rushed to where Yennefer was standing and her hands immediately splayed on the small of her back, tracing the dip there with nimble fingers. “Crossed straps?”

“Just a loose knot,” Yennefer tousled her hair with calculated force. “Has your Mistress provided you with any other clues as to who will be there?”

Triss shook her head as she grasped at the ends of the laces, bringing them together, one under the other, to start on the knot. “I know for certain Stregobor will be there. Perhaps Radcliffe of Oxenfurt?”

“Seems sensible,” Yennefer nodded. “And Philippa Eilhart – you’ve heard of her, I am certain,” she hissed, unwillingly, as Triss looped the knot at the back of her dress a bit too tightly.

“Sorry,” Triss mumbled. She tugged at the lace to loosen it a bit and nodded, thinking of the all the times she had pondered on how being within the vicinity of someone as influential and brilliant a sorceress as Philippa Eilhart would feel.

Already she could feel her spine tingling from anticipation.

“Steer clear of her until Tissaia indicates otherwise,” Yennefer raised a dismissive hand at Triss’s sound of protest. “She will no doubt attempt to pull you out of your comfort zone. Do not attempt to dominate the conversation; you can never succeed, and you will only ridicule yourself in the process. She’s older, wiser and sharper – don’t scowl, your wrinkles are growing deeper. If you ever feel like you are gaining the upper hand, do not for a second question it : it will be merely because she is allowing it to happen.”

“How comforting,” Triss sighed dramatically and stepped back to admire her handiwork.

Yennefer twisted in front of her, stilling Triss’s hands, her eyes stern in a manner much alike to nonverbal admonishments Triss used to receive when she was a young novice at Aretuza.

“Drop the childish act – listen to me. When you’re talking to her, pretend you’re only as bright as the rest of them. Giggle, drink, mingle. Do not, however, act smart.” Yennefer insisted. “Because if she sees something more in you, if she feels you seek to challenge or outwit her, she will not back down. Do you hear me, Triss? She will not stop.”

Triss’s eyebrows furrowed at the flash in Yennefer’s eyes. _There’s a story there,_ she thought.

“Pretend.”

“Am I not supposed to be impressing the Council?”

“Impressing the Council is one thing. Trading droll quips with Philippa is an entirely different matter.”

Triss’s brow quirked. “One that I am very much looking forward to delve into.”

Ignoring the disapproving stare Yennefer was pinning her with in the mirror, Triss leaned forward to nestle her cheek on the smooth plane spanning between Yennefer’s shoulder blades. The difference in temperature between their skin was so refreshing that it elicited an earnest sigh.

“Thank the universe Tissaia will be there,” Yennefer’s face contorted condescendingly. “Otherwise you’d be licking Philippa’s ankle boots by the end of the night.”

Triss did not have time to utter a caustic reply before the distinct smell of overheated metal overtook her senses and with a start and bulging eyes she realized that maybe the stewpot had gotten just a tad _too much_ love from the fire.

……

“I’m proud of you, Triss,” Yennefer’s whisper was almost too loud against the silence that had cloaked the chambers.

Triss chuckled. Her fingers traced the supple silhouette of a sprite through the slim linen covering Yennefer’s ribs.

“I should be alarmed,” she mumbled, voice equally low, “that you are being so forthcoming about it.”

Yennefer’s eyes snapped upwards in a typical Yennefer fashion. “Smartarse.”

During the time she had known Yennefer, Triss had rarely - if ever - had the privilege of seeing the other woman pour her heart into figures of speech; so one could reasonably expect Triss could not recognize the occasion if it occurred. And yet, from the faint but persistent semi-circles Yennefer’s fingertips were drawing on Triss’s scalp to the smoothness of her voice while she had murmured the words, Triss could, unfettered, conclude that this was one of those unique times.

It was as heartwarming as it was, indeed, unsettling.

“Thank you,” Triss offered, almost inaudible as she burrowed further in Yennefer’s shoulder. But she knew Yennefer had heard her. “I really do wish you would attend,” she added, for good measure.

At the absence of a reply, she settled in further and exhaled leisurely on the little hairs of Yennefer’s clavicle. The chosen quiet felt an awful lot like guilt.

Despite the warmth and the darkness, Triss struggled to surrender in the clutches of deep sleep until the early morning glow had filtered through the window pane intrusively.

And the fact that Yennefer’s breaths had similarly refused to even out until approximately the same time had failed to assuage any of her troubles.

……

They didn’t get to lie together underneath plush covers again.

Triss never got to tell her the amusing and shameful details of her trysts, or about Tissaia’s reactions to hearing of them, and Yennefer never much delved into her adventures in Hagge, Vengerberg, or elsewhere.

In fact, they did not even get to stand in the same room for a very, very long time.

Yennefer had promised her a graduation present.

Triss received nearly three decades of nothing but static silence.

……


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I brought them here,” Tissaia abruptly stated, unprompted, her voice tinted with a jarring shade of apathy. “Arranged them in a line like pigs for slaughter.”
> 
> Philippa pursed her lips, unsure of what to do with the remorse of a woman who had never once before admitted to an error in her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i refuse to accept philippa was seemingly not at all involved with sodden in the show.
> 
> this is the result.

**Something To Protect, Little Still To Wish For**

“ _They had us memorize the names, should we forget to ever be grateful for the fact we got to live another day._

_But how could we forget? At night, legend has it, you can still hear the hoarse screams and the clash of swords over at the Hill._

_At night, if you approach the obelisk, the names on the stone glow ominously as if the dead themselves may rise to greet the visitor out of dug up graves._

_And if you get too close, you had better watch your step, lest you trip and you yourself fall in the fourteenth, the empty one.”_

**_\- On Sodden : As the Young-uns Remember It  
_ ** **(c. 1289)**

……

So far removed from the strictures of Court gallantries, Philippa lifted two fingers to her nose supinely, pinching slightly to ward off the appalling stench of charred flesh and what smelled suspiciously similar to human urine. It was as sickening as it was sad; hard feat to imagine a fate worse than pissing one’s pants seconds before one’s body was incinerated.

For a moment, she averted her gaze from the withering body of black on her feet towards the torched forest grounds, and saw infinite tendrils of dense smoke wafting upwards to blend with the clouds. The pale lavender hues of the sky heralded dawn, yet it seemed nearly impossible that they could put out the raging inferno any time soon. No sun would rise above the darkness that day. Just a looming stretch of death and war in its stead.

She listened as Foltest’s foot men and almost an entire Redanian infantry unit shouted and cursed as they struggled to salvage what was left of the wilderness near the river, lest the fires spread to the camps they had set overnight.

Philippa sighed and turned back to the groaning lump of flesh underneath her. This was no man. Next to nothing remained of him that could earn him the rubric of a soldier. The little of him that did resemble humanity were the guttural and dry yowls of anguish he forced through the remnants of his teeth, but even that sounded more like the ghostly mutation of what should be a familiar sound – a cacophony of unearthly wails piercing through her eardrums mercilessly. Philippa mustered all her willpower and lowered herself on the hunches of her feet, slowly letting her hand fall from her nose.

She should let him wither in the pool of his comrades’ mangled limbs. She felt little to no sympathy for his unluck – merely nauseated at the sight of him. Philippa thought of how many of their own were probably already dead, or even worse, being treated by bogus healers so that they could suffer in the land of the living for just a short while longer, their torture prolonged in the name of patriotic compassion.

Compassion would be to slit their throats quickly and without dwelling farewells.

Why should she afford him that courtesy?

Philippa pursed her lips and wiped the underside of the dagger clutched between her fingers on the fabric of her pants. “You sorry sod,” she spoke, almost as softly as a mother would to their dozing tot. “You will perish here and no one will remember you.”

The following moan of pain could have been an answer, but Philippa knew better. This empty shell of a man had not even realized someone was leaning above him. Agony had manhandled the reins of his conscience, and that was all he understood. The last thing he would ever understand.

It was with this knowledge that Philippa reached forward abruptly, flipping the flat of her blade in her hand and with a skilled flourish, swiped at his Adam’s apple. The grieved moans eased smoothly into incoherent mumbles, and soon ceased all at once.

He did not feel gratefulness in his last moments, and that comforted her. He had not realized someone spared him. If a tree fell in the forest and no one was around to hear it, did it truly make a sound?

Philippa sucked in her cheeks and looked up at the sea of black, gold and marred brown ahead of her.

How many trees could fall before someone eventually noticed?

She rose to her feet and with careful steps, treaded to the right down a path of corpses less obscure and easier to navigate than the rest of the field. She did not spare a second look at any more of the groaning masses of exposed bone and tarnished skin. Eventually, she reached the open field where the fire had not moved. There, the bodies of soldiers were no longer burnt to the sinews, but fallen in the throes of real battle, bent at odd angles with spears and Temerian longswords jutting out of their cuirasses.

Occasionally, Philippa would pause at the sight of half-torn flags of the Temerian lilies or the bloodied gauntlets of what she recognized as the Redanian mounted knights’ armor. She had been on the other side of the front attack, with King Vizimir’s cavalry, and had not had the opportunity until now to take in this landscape of war. She hunched over repeatedly, fluttering closed the eyelids over their young and dull eyes. After a while though, she stopped that too, exhausted and much too dreading the scene that followed to focus on the fallen warriors.

She started striding ahead and bit to the left, ascending the uphill dirt tracks with a palm pressed over her wound to get to the top of the hill where the elven ruins stood dilapidated, while scattered soldiers stumbled downhill, scouring through the piles of bodies for loot and useable weapons.

Closer to the top, amidst some bushes and large rock formations, Philippa saw the first familiar figure with a fletched arrow sticking out its back. Her shoulders deflated, and with a soft grunt under her breath, she nudged the body to the side with the tip of her boot. It was Atlan Kerk, a talented and promising wizard, with his throat slashed open and face contorted into a nasty, chilling grimace.

Philippa stepped back and signaled to the clean up squad across from her to approach her with a shout.

“Take this one to the camp,” she hissed when the clangs of armor came closer. “He’s a mage.”

They complied without a word. With a reluctant exhale, she sheathed her dagger and marched forward steadily. There would be no need to put anyone out of their misery from this point on. They were all dead.

Stray severed limbs, splintered arrows, shattered armor, muddy puddles of blood and vomit on the grass blades in the path to the front gate. Pockmarked Alex lying motionless with his cloak shredded a few paces away, and the battered remnants of Yoël Grethen not much further away. Dutifully, Philippa called over more soldiers, indicating the bodies to gather.

“We’ve no strength, my lady,” the knight with a tattered gorget and dented pauldrons croaked. “We can’t carry all of them.”

Philippa inched closer and stared the decadent warrior in the eye with rampant menace. “ _They_ carried your battle yesterday with every bit of strength they possessed and then some,” she spat. “Unfasten your breastplates and pick their bodies up before the last reserves of my patience deplete. Now.”

By the gate, on a leafless, robust tree trunk, lay the mutilated body of a woman, pinned to its place by a massive spear through her gut. Philippa bit her tongue so tightly she wondered whether the skin would split and she would soon start tasting the metallic tang of blood between her teeth. A perfect distillation of warfare and tragedy, the dress flowed with the sway of the early morn’s wind, the flourish of its movement too buoyant for the gory imagery hiding inside it. An unholy balance of horror and grace which Philippa couldn’t tear her eyes away from.

The woman’s hair were a matted red, either chestnut or maroon in color without the sunlight to confirm, and Philippa stood there motionless for a long and visceral moment of trepidation.

The errant strands of hair whipped at her face, having escaped the tight confines of her braid during the heat of the battle. She narrowed her eyes and focused her powers on the corpse across from her but found it hard to establish its identity even with the aid of her magic. She stopped the effort abruptly with a curse between her teeth and grunted harshly, her energy diminished already from hours of crossing swords and repelling the remaining squadrons of Nilfgaardians with her spells at Vizimir’s command.

Philippa doubled over with a protective hand over her stomach and another on her knee, breathing evenly and carefully against the surge of fatigue flooding her bones.

A few seconds after she gathered her bearings again, she straightened up and moved forward hesitantly, towards the lifeless chunk of muscles and bone. She tried not to stare at the exposed tendons and grisly nerve-ends of the woman’s body. Her eyes were fixed only on the delicate but distorted features of her face.

It was Lytta. The fiery red pigment of her tresses had dulled from a heavy sheen of blood and soot.

She did not have to yell at anyone this time round. As suddenly as recognition of the mage had dawned on her, three buxom men and a young boy appeared behind her, already working on the lance impaling Coral to the trunk.

Philippa did not even nod in acknowledgement. She turned abruptly and walked along a trail of dead Nilfgaardians to the foot of the gate, where several more soldiers were haphazardly strewn against each other. She squinted and noticed that from the frames of the gate sprouted rootlets and thick plant filaments, either severed or burnt with torches tossed just inside the gate. Someone must have tried to trap the oncoming troops there. Or perhaps barricade the gate? She could not be sure.

Whoever it was could not have survived the assault for long, and Philippa heaved another sigh, ignoring the sharp sting of her injured thigh as she widened her gait to avoid stepping on the dead bodies, steeling herself for whatever other gruesome sight would greet her inside.

……

As a grey, gloomy morning broke out above their heads, Philippa pushed aside the fabric of the massive single-pole pavilion tent and entered, rearranging her hair in her braid in the process with a tiredness characteristic of someone who had spent the last couple of hours seeking out cadavers and piecing together wearily what had transpired before their arrival on the Hill.

Inside the tent were Donimir of Troy and one of his commanders, King Vizimir, King Foltest with one of his generals, and the leading governor of the Aedirnian army, gathered around a huge wooden mesa table with crumpled maps littered across and over it.

“At the very least six thousand of my men died on that field,” the general roared, clearly agitated though for what reason Philippa was not yet aware. “I want prisoners. Something to keep the survivors occupied before they realize their brothers, cousins and sons have all met their end on the bloody slope like damned dogs.”

“Easy, general-” Donimir placated, but he was quickly cut off by the slam of the Temerian general’s palm on the table. Next to him, Foltest was cradling his forehead in troubled thought.

“Listen to me you foul prick,” he bellowed, and the Redanian knight slinked back a few inches. “It was my unit that mounted the first attack, weakening the remainder of the Nilfgaardian squadrons enough for your sorry attempt of a charge to succeed. If I say I want prisoners, you will dance and whistle as you go fetch them for me! Do you hear, you twat?”

“Bronibor,” Foltest urged, raising a silencing hand. The general bit back another attack of insults and crossed his arms angrily.

Philippa cleared her throat, and suddenly all heads twisted towards the entrance. King Vizimir rose from his chair, settling two heavy palms on the maps in front of him as he stared at her.

“Philippa,” he greeted her. “Any luck with the search parties?”

No luck. Only death.

She shook her head curtly. “From what I’ve gathered twenty some mages came to hold the fortress two days ago,” she paused, pointedly staring at the general who so vehemently claimed his unit did the hard work. “We have managed to recover ten bodies which I can confirm belonged to mages of the Brotherhood. I have assigned a further expedition towards the woods, where I suspect a few more might have fallen while trying to stall the Nilfgaardian march.”

King Vizimir nodded and beside him, King Foltest rubbed a slightly trembling hand at the lines between his furrowed brows. “Fercart of Cidaris and a few others are gathered some tents away, tending to the wounded. There are some mages there,” Foltest muttered.

Philippa bowed her head in acknowledgement but immediately turned to King Vizimir again.

She could not leave without planting a specific trail of thought in his head, lest all of them, bloodthirsty and proud as they were, decided to do horrible and unwise deeds in the heat of their emotions.

“My King,” she started, and set aside a stubborn tuft of hair from her cheek. “With only good intentions and the legitimacy you have afforded to my word I say this, and I mean no harm. I strongly advise your Majesties to consider at length the ramifications of a mass punitive action against the surviving Nilfgaardians, especially with regard to any possible negotiations of a peace treaty that you could, in the following few months, engage in with Emhyr.”

Bronibor’s face went beetroot red, but before he could direct his foulness to her, King Vizimir breathed deeply and nodded, his hand a fist atop the etching of Sodden on the map.

“We will,” he assured, and Philippa doubted it, but she was tired and she had bigger problems to deal with. They would cross that bridge when they got there. She nodded.

As she excused herself and turned to exit, Foltest’s voice brought her to a halt just outside the tent.

“Lady Eilhart,” he called, and Philippa twisted her body to better face him. His tone was a muddled blend of authority and apprehension. “Before our troops arrived, apart from Fercart, there was another of the mages from my Royal Council here, volunteering to fight. It would please me greatly if you could establish her whereabouts,” his eyes lowered. “Alive, or otherwise.”

……

Philippa evened a short stick between two rows of teeth, bit down on it and muttered with difficulty the incantation to a numbing spell for the large gash on her thigh. The sting intensified for a long second, blood rushing to Philippa’s head from the discomfort, until it stopped and all that persisted was a dim, manageable itch.

The git who accomplished it had caught her from the back with his halberd while she had been hurling Nilfgaardians down the slope with her magic. She had thoroughly enjoyed half-pivoting and shoving her dagger through his jaw, cruelly dragging it by ninety degrees and forcing his head to halve. Philippa usually took no pleasure in messy kills, but all was fair in the face of plausible death.

With a restrained huff, she pulled the stick out of her mouth, taking care not to let any saliva drip down her doublet. It was an unpretty sight, but then again, everything within a five mile radius from here was. She swallowed, wetting her parched throat, and tossed the stick aside, quickly dipping a cloth in the bowl of water next to her and dabbing at the perspiration on her face.

There were a few emotions currently brewing inside of her;

Exhaustion, because she had not slept for entire days since the news of Cintra’s massacre echoed off the castle walls, and her magic was drained due to repeated and relentless use in the battlefield.

Queasiness, because as long a lifetime as she’d had, the sight of rotting cadavers and the smell of torched flesh never became easier to take in.

Dismay, because of how many talented mages perished on this hill. Wrath, because the search parties had not yet located all of them, and she _knew_ there were more.

Dread, for the ones she had yet to find and identify.

Philippa balanced an elbow on her knee and rested her chin on her clenched knuckles, measuring up the surrounding campsite.

Temerians with Temerians and Redanians with Redanians, of course, as they passed around tankards of watered down mead and rye bread. Some wounded who had just been discharged from the healers, limping around the camp, eager to join a company for the next few hours. To her right, by the dense array of tents, cartfuls of covered bodies were being wheeled out towards the forest. The corpses went, but the armor stayed behind, and Philippa watched with distaste but understanding as some young army rejects were ordered to scrub them clean off any blood spatters and dirt.

Further in the distance, black smoke still fogged the sky, and though it was morning, it felt as if it were evening again, as if rebirth of the sun and renewal of the day were too slow to follow yesterday’s demise and those remaining were thus caught up in an endless cycle of darkness, ruin and decease. There were more campsites dotted across the fields, and no doubt the survivors had similarly morbid thoughts coursing through their heads.

Philippa ran a hand over the top of her hair, and with gritted teeth, rose from the stump she had sought reprieve on. She adjusted the cuffs of her tunic and strolled forth, towards one of the largest and most raucous tents.

When she entered, her eyes immediately settled on a disgruntled Radcliffe of Oxenfurt, soaked in sweat as he tried to hold down a wailing peasant who looked half dead already save for the piercing cries his throat emitted.

More peasants were screeching and shriveling in unrest along the length of the tent, and Philippa walked further inside, searching for more familiar faces in the chaos. Fercart of Cidaris was indeed there, cursing and grumbling profanities at some healers next to him.

A few feet away, Artaud Terranova was conducting a heated debate with one of the patients lying on a hastily assembled cot in the back of the tent. Terranova’s proclivity for launching into fervid discussions was not surprising in itself; but rather the fact that the other participant was Sabrina Glevissig, who even with shortness of breath and a ghastly pallor found it in her to flip Artaud off.

Philippa tilted her head and turned, gaze finally directed at a lone woman with redness rimming her irises and a disposition so lethargic that she nearly startled, realizing it was none other than Tissaia de Vries, staring off into the void of the horizon.

She stood still in front of her, a wall of tension building up between them.

“I brought them here,” Tissaia abruptly stated, unprompted, her voice tinted with a jarring shade of apathy. “Arranged them in a line like pigs for slaughter.”

Philippa pursed her lips, unsure of what to do with the remorse of a woman who had never once before admitted to an error in her life. Finally, she opted for a slow approach and a seat next to her, exhaling in mute soreness as her bottom hit the ground.

She gave the proximity a moment to settle before speaking gently.

“You discount their bravery by taking on the responsibility yourself. They all came here fully prepared for the risks they were about to face. It was their choice, fighting for a future they believed in.”

Tissaia huffed a croaked and humorless chuckle. There was dampness pooled below her nostrils and atop her cupid’s bow. “Not you,” her voice was so scratchy that it triggered an unwilling shiver in Philippa. “Not Philippa Eilhart endeavoring to reassure her old principal so shamelessly.”

Philippa inched her back towards the tent behind her, creating a slight dip of the fabric. “I know nothing of solace, Tissaia. Only truth, though I may not always choose to share it.”

“I will share a truth with you now, Philippa,” Tissaia turned to stare at her with inconsolable eyes and twitching eyebrows. “I wish you weren’t standing here, so dreadful as you are at providing comfort,” she whispered. “I wish neither one of us was.”

Philippa blinked. She took her dagger out of its sheath and twirled the hilt between the pads of her fingers.

“Self-pity does not suit you, Rectoress.”

Tissaia hummed and directed her gaze towards the void again, as if she were awaiting someone to show any moment, as if any comfort could be found in the dark haze descending over their camps.

Finally, she sighed. “Who haven’t you located?”

“They found Gorazd by the elven well,” Philippa shook her head. “But nothing about Dagobert of Vole, Lawdbor of Murivel, Vilgefortz,” then she hesitated, worrying at her gum. “Apart from the inestimable body count, there are no evident signs of Yennefer either.”

Tissaia closed her eyes tightly. A fresh wave of wetness hanged from her eyelashes and Philippa dragged her eyes away, unwilling to witness such an embarrassing display. Despite her own upset at the situation, she prided herself in being able to keep her emotions in check, if she even allowed herself to foster them at all in the first place. It was a valuable instruction first given to her by the very same woman who was now quietly tearing up next to her.

The older woman sucked in her cheeks and wiped at them hurriedly. “Vanielle?”

“Dead inside the fortress,” Philippa confirmed. “Fletched arrow.”

Tissaia nodded silently. Then, with clasped hands above the tops of her knees, she breathed in deeply.

“Lawdbor and Dagobert took position in the woodlands,” she informed, tone grim. “But Vilgefortz lives. One of the crofters saw him move about before Foltest’s army arrived.”

“I suspected as much.”

More silence engulfed them, and Philippa gripped at her dagger securely, testing to see if she could still move her joints normally despite the tiredness.

“Philippa,” Tissaia sounded composed, but when Philippa turned to her she was staring resolutely away.

She said nothing.

“Lytta Neyd was near the gate when the Nilfgaardians advanced but she wasn’t alone. And-”

“We found Coral,” Philippa assured, pushing back the sickening memory from her mind, but Tissaia’s anguished exhale was not for this fact.

“- and Triss,” Tissaia’s voice cracked. Philippa stilled despite herself.

When Tissaia didn’t continue, her face constricting so tightly and desperately, Philippa sheathed the dagger and leaned forward. “Yes?”

“Little Merigold was trying to hold the gate,” Sabrina’s stale voice cut in. Her body was lifted on a tired elbow and her dress was drenched in sweat. Artaud was nowhere to be seen. “She was the last of the front line.”

Young Triss Merigold striving to hold the fort all by herself with conjured branches and the experience of a toddler on the battlefield. Philippa gave no indications, but her head connected all the dots. It was her who had been behind the gate, attempting to stave off another ruthless attack by trapping the soldiers to the front, and it was her who must have been assaulted with the smoking torches Philippa spotted by the gate.

Leaning reluctantly into this revelation, Philippa tightened her lips into a thin line and stared off into the distance like Tissaia had done not so long ago.

The future Triss Merigold had not known had caught up with her viciously, mercilessly, just as Philippa had anticipated. For a brief moment she wondered if Triss sensed that, in the no doubt last moments of her valiant effort to delay an inevitable massacre. Philippa found herself wondering if Triss had known that she would be torched when she conjured up those offshoots, and for the first time in what felt perilously like forever, she questioned the validity of her statement; had they all really known the risks they were facing when they undertook to fight at the emergency conclave?

Did the young, naïve Triss Merigold recognize that she had volunteered to die?

“Could she have ran away during the fight?” Philippa asked only for the benefit of Tissaia. She knew logically, that even if Triss had somehow retreated to the fort, she most probably had not survived the ordeal. Internally, she considered disclosing that there were several unidentified corpses found inside the ruins, but the idea was quickly dismissed.

Not only was Tissaia not in the right state of mind to hear this information, but the image of Triss’s corpse being so battered and burnt that they could not distinguish it amongst dozens of others also rendered Philippa uneasy for reasons she could not quite pinpoint.

Sabrina threw her hair back firmly. “Yes,” her teeth were clenched from residual pain, “but she didn’t. I saw her at the gate before Fringilla’s earworms took effect. She was there.”

“Triss Merigold was set on fire as soon as the fifth and sixth Nilfgaardian squads marched to the top. Not too long after Coral was hustled to the tree,” Radcliffe of Oxenfurt threw a towel over his shoulder and wiped at his brows with zeal. There were blood splatters above and below his eyes. Next to her, Tissaia’s breath hitched. “I was approximately two furlongs away when it happened.”

“Your eyesight serves you that far, Radcliffe?” grumbled Sabrina bitterly.

Radcliffe’s eyes narrowed but he did not spare a second glance to the Kaedwenian.

“I am sure of it. Your search for her is futile,” Radcliffe’s nasal tone did not relent at Tissaia’s poorly hidden upset. “What remains of her is probably not that distinct from the Nilfgaardians Yennefer of Vengerberg incinerated. You might as well hoist a sack of coal over your shoulders, call it Merigold and be done with it.”

“That’s enough of your imaginative descriptions, Radcliffe,” Philippa snapped, scratching at the side of her neck in contemplation. Tissaia and Sabrina had gone as mute as dead women.

“It’s no imagination,” Radcliffe argued. “It is a reasonable inference drawn from the available facts. Merigold’s trick with the branches could only last so long before one of these buffoons formed a rational thought and tested their luck with fire. I saw them carry torches towards her and one went through. Long minutes later, there were several explosions in the fort and we were alerted that the gate had been breached by some screaming farmers.” Radcliffe rubbed his hands together to generate heat.

“Does a pragmatic and experienced woman such as yourself, Philippa Eilhart, truly imagine that the youngest of us all stood a chance against the invasion, injured and drained of magic as she indubitably was?” His eyes fleeted to an evidently distraught Tissaia. “I am only telling this to save you trouble later. We have plenty maimed to treat and important conversations to initiate as it is. There is no sense in dwelling on the dead.”

Sabrina had apparently reached her threshold of brooding reticence for the day. “Enough!” She yelled, and then coughed as if her insides were going to drop out at any given moment. She was not deterred by an approaching healer’s pacifying gestures.

“All I’ve been hearing since midnight is about negotiations, healing and alleged important conversations. Everyone is so hellbent on so quickly dismissing the dead; the very same dead, Radcliffe, who kept your eyesight functioning and that dreadful voice of yours talking. You speak of young Triss Merigold as if she’s already a thing of the past and not someone who knew naught but us for the better part of her unduly brief life. Piss on you! Pricks!”

The occupants of the room had all turned their attention to the fuss. Tissaia de Vries had her hand on her forehead and Radcliffe of Oxenfurt, against all odds, seemed to have lost a few inches of his height. Behind him, Fercart of Cidaris looked incensed. But nothing could stop Sabrina now, who cursed at her own state and shooed some more men away with flames gleaming in her green eyes.

“And Yennefer of Vengerberg, whose name you spit out so contemptuously… Why I could be agreeing, after all; none other loathes that nasty bitch more than I do, save perhaps Fringilla Vigo. I could cheer you on, but I don’t, you ungrateful swine, because we’d all be dead if it weren’t for her sudden burst of inspiration!” Sabrina shouted, her hands gesticulating wildly and in uninhibited emotion.

“You save no one any trouble with your faux-concerned tone and your shitty platitudes, Radcliffe. Hear hear, let’s hoist a sack of coal and call it Merigold… Pox and leprosy on you! How about I hurl your arse into a swamp and call it mercy to anyone who has to hear your bullshite on the daily, you foul git?”

Tissaia raised her head and sighed heavily. “Sabrina-”

“No!” Just when Philippa thought Sabrina didn’t have it in her to grasp a higher octave, Sabrina shrieked. “No, I will not have it! And where were you Rectoress? No doubt discussing the weather with Fringilla while we were watching Coral get dismembered, Yoël blasted, and your dear Merigold was evidently battered to death with lit blowtorches, like a dog,” in Sabrina’s eyes, angry and frustrated tears were stubbornly shining through, though the Kaedwenian was adamant on maintaining a feisty disposition.

“I don’t regret fighting this war, because I believed in myself and the cause. But if you are planning on professing that every single one of us went into it with the same stakes then to hell with the lot of you! I want no part of it! Because despite your crappy self-assurances, all of you know deep inside as well and surely as I do that nothing could be furthest from the bloody truth!”

Sabrina stopped, chest heaving. Tissaia was staring at the ground in desolation and so was Radcliffe of Oxenfurt, shoulders slumped. Philippa only threaded her fingers together tightly, taking note of everyone who had huddled closer to witness the outburst. Patients, healers and even a couple of soldiers outside, listening into Sabrina’s ravings.

Only they weren’t mad ravings, Philippa knew, but the impassioned speech of a woman who had just gone through hell and lived to tell the tale.

“The truth is,” Sabrina eventually continued, her voice more quieted now, less like a frenzied hammer and more like a sharp blade aiming to cut with cruel precision, “that some of us came here with something to protect and little left to wish for,” her eyes fixed on Tissaia, and Philippa noted an unspoken understanding passed between them. “But some…” Sabrina looked away, “some, like little Merigold, had _everything_ still left to hope for.”

Nobody objected.

There seemed to be no punchline to Sabrina’s rant. She had merely dropped a bomb of truth in the midst of an open, crowded field – damned be the consequences.

Philippa cleared her throat against the silence and finally spoke. “Those confirmed to be dead will be honored,” she notified, voice carefully low and contained, with the privilege of having conversed with both King Vizimir and King Foltest. “An obelisk with their names engraved on it will be erected at the top of the hill, never to be forgotten.”

With little breath and strength left in her, Sabrina got up, shoving away a healer who attempted to push her back down. She took a few tentative but intentional steps towards the exit, before turning over her shoulder to stare down at Philippa with nothing but exhaustion and detest boiling in her eyes.

“There is no one present here that could recognize Triss out of a pile of black corpses,” she stated. “Only Yennefer of Vengerberg knew her so intimately, and she’s well and truly gone.”

Her gaze flashed, and her hands were curled into fists. “Should you feel obligated, you can dig up a lump of coal and toss it in her grave to honor her, or even fill it up with hay for all it’s worth,” she spat, briskly directing her glare to Radcliffe of Oxenfurt.

“Apparently, it’s not worth much anyways, is it?”

And then, she left.

……

“I wasn’t aware you were familiar with Coral,” Philippa offered in lieu of a greeting when she found Sabrina Glevissig ripping grass blades out of the ground and twisting them around her fingers with wrath. “Or Triss Merigold, for that matter.”

Sabrina stared up with a furrow between her brows, lips forming a snarl. She looked back down to the grass. “That’s because I wasn’t,” she retorted. “I’ve had my fair share of arguments with Coral. And Triss, well… I didn’t really know her all that well. But she stuck to Yennefer’s side like a flea,” Sabrina muttered, picking out another unfortunate rootlet off the dirt at her feet. “Pathetic.”

Philippa raised a brow, but said nothing in return. She sat down across from Sabrina and spread out her palms towards the fire, warming up her limbs. She was neither stunned nor affronted on the dead’s behalf by Sabrina’s duplicity. It was a common characteristic herself and her colleagues shared.

Sabrina huffed, throwing the tufts of grass in the fire. “She should have never gone to the gate,” she finished, voice harsh but with a hint of frustration at the edges.

Philippa did not speak still. Sabrina dragged her eyes to her. “Where the fuck were you, Philippa?”

Philippa blinked slowly, staring into the fire. “I had Redania’s issues to deal with after the Battle of Marnadal,” she explained. “King Vizimir was not easily convinced to march south, Sabrina.”

The other woman laughed in disbelief before staring out into the tree line still holding in spite of Yennefer’s actions. “These Kings…” Sabrina shook her head. “You should have been at the conclave, Philippa. You could have swayed the vote, damn it.”

“And what then?” Philippa snapped, pulling her hands from the warmth of the flames to run them through her braid. “You think Stregobor or Artorius would have intervened? Do you believe that Atlan Kerk would not have had his throat slit or Coral her arms brutally cut off?” She asked, tone firm.

“Do you think that Triss Merigold wouldn’t have ran to the front line simply because a couple more mages would have joined you in the initial battle?” She chuckled darkly. “Don’t be daft, Sabrina. You were right, not everyone stood to lose the same things in this battle; but those who volunteered stood to gain something as well. Even Triss, who was the youngest one of all. That was why she rushed to barricade that gate. Even Yennefer of Vengerberg I would wager, though I can’t figure out what, had something to gain, because she would never partake in this without having an end goal in mind.”

Sabrina pursed her lips and looked away again.

The silence between them stretched and thickened, until Sabrina broke it again with a softer tone, if her voice was even ever capable of taking on such a quality. “Do you suppose there will be a peace treaty?”

Philippa shrugged. “Possibly.” In truth, she was going to make sure of it. At least for the following few years. “And you?”

“Spying even at times like this Philippa… how so very not unlike you.”

“I answered your question. It seemed only prudent to return it.”

Sabrina scoffed. Regardless, she relented. “King Henselt has many aspirations. I am near certain a peace treaty would most likely aid their fulfillment. At least for the foreseeable future.”

Philippa nodded. She made to get up, but paused on her feet when Sabrina called for her again.

“What are you going to do about Merigold?”

Philippa sighed. The obelisk was already being lifted and stonecutters had started working on the inscriptions. “They had better not dig a grave for a body they did not yet find, but it isn’t entirely up to me. Her name will be carved in, as is right, with Yoël, Coral and the rest of them.”

“How bittersweet,” Sabrina sneered.

But Philippa’s eyes wandered there, where the memory of thirteen mages and a young Triss Merigold would linger in perpetuity, and found Sabrina’s description was hardly fitting, because the prospect was exponentially more bitter than it had ever been sweet.

……

“Master Fercart!” A man yelled while King Vizimir was in the long process of explaining what their next move ought to be, and Philippa almost considered cracking his neck at the interruption, having dedicated the last few hours to calming everyone down enough to get down to calculated politics. It had been three days now since the battle, and before they all mounted horses to depart, there were some critical details to examine.

Fercart of Cidaris leveled a displeased glare at the intruder, who had now cowered just outside their tent, recognizing that he had stumbled in on the vicinity of men far more significant than him.

“Who the hell is this pricker?” Bronibor pointed a thumb at him with his gauntlet.

Fercart shook his head. “I would ask the same thing.”

Tired of the intense looks but lack of action, Philippa straightened up. “Speak!” She ordered, her irritation growing rapidly.

“I’m- I was-” he stammered and gulped down, “m-my name-”

Philippa rolled her eyes and her fingers traced ominously the hilt of the dagger hanging from her hips.

Hastily, the man bowed his head and his tongue started rolling as if his life depended on it.

Which it did.

“Myself and another were sent here by an ealdorman from the Western campsite, where most of the Aedirnians have settled, not too far away from here. They said there’s something you need to know,” he scratched at his head, eyes jumping between the Kings anxiously before settling on the ground again. “They say they have two of your people amongst their wounded.”

“Our people?” Fercart frowned, head tilted as if he were trying to make sense of the man’s blabbering.

“Yes Master! They asked for you specifically, because word spread that you were treating the wounded!”

Philippa’s hand motioned for silence before anyone could utter a word.

“What did the ealdorman say, word for word?”

“H-he said - word for word this, I swear it on me mother’s bones – to find Master Fercart of Cidaris and inform him that two of his kind are with us at the Western settlement, where they were led by few survivors just shortly before your Majesties arrived and set encampments.”

Right on cue, Philippa and Fercart traded urgent looks. Philippa moved forward quickly, where the man was hovering just outside the tent.

“What else do you know about these two mages?”

“One is severely burnt and the other appears to have naught but a few mild abrasions-”

“Philippa!” Sabrina’s voice thundered from outside the adjacent tent, where another messenger was trembling in his boots at the sight of the animated Kaedwenian sorceress. Philippa’s head snapped towards her.

“I’ll be damned!” She yelled. “It’s Merigold! They’ve got Vilgefortz and Triss Merigold!”

……

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a little psa : update frequency will slow from here on because the next few chapters will be based on book!lore and need some polishing. also a busy life!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You understand shit-all,” Yennefer pressed on, persistent. “Out there you will no longer be little Merigold of Aretuza, but another mage to paint the hill with her guts and her blood. No amount of huffing and puffing is going to change that, nor am I going to change that. Is she prepared for this reality, the brave Triss Merigold, who has volunteered to fight oh so valiantly for her dear Temeria?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's a chance this will be longer than 10 chapters. 
> 
> 10 chapters was only a rough marker, but by the way I have to separate the stories it may end up being more :)

**Fourteenth Of The Hill  
**

_“It is not the suffering of a bleeding wound I fear,_

_But the thought of being alone when the sword lands the blow_

_[...]_

_After, when I no longer know myself;_

_Who will recognize me?”_

**_\- Fragments of a Soldier’s Ravings,  
_ ** **(c. 1290)**

……

There were two things, Keira Metz had confided, that she would never get caught up dead in :

Firstly, a deserter’s bed. They were messed up beyond repair, she had said, and burrowing under the sheets with them apparently entailed more babysitting than exchanging filthy touches. Army rejects who had never slashed at anything other than a training dummy with their swords, snarling at a babbling infant as if it posed a threat to national security, were another particular type of messy to look out for according to Keira.

This piece of what Keira considered to be invaluable and vital advice, had been provided to Triss after a long day, while they were loose and tucked away at the obscurity of Triss’s lab, conversation encouraged by Keira’s secret stash of ale. They had grown marginally closer after their required cooperation during the smallpox epidemic; just familiar enough with each other to drink from the same tankard with no qualms.

This revelation Keira had shared with her had been preceded by Triss’s own revelation about the multitude of men she had met during her time as Foltest’s advisor; amongst them a man known as Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf.

How Keira had turned that into a lecture about the shortcomings of granting passage between their thighs to renegade soldiers, Triss did not know, especially considering that Geralt and herself had hardly been in the same room for longer than a few hours at most, and for the better portion of that time he had been unconscious. Significantly, Geralt was hardly a soldier, and double that significance, Triss had never even really thought of how it would be to share his bedsheets.

She had thought of how his lips tasted at most. And perhaps how it would feel to be the princess he was so nobly attempting to save. But Keira was having none of that ‘sappy nonsense’.

“Drink a little more so you can indicate without hang-ups how tight his buttocks were,” Keira had laughed.

The second thing on Keira’s very short but precise list of forbidden ventures was, as she had put it, “occupying the space between a psychopathic old wizard with the face of a wild lemur and his centuries-old female nemesis with a permanent sneer so foul that she mustn’t have gotten some in decades.”

In fact, Keira had theorized, the last part was plausibly a vicious cycle : the sneer justified the lack of sex and the lack of sex justified the sneer; and she had subsequently suggested that if Tissaia ever required any assistance with that, Keira would not be averse to the idea of lending her a hand (“or two”).

And Triss, of course, ever the loving student even outside the academy’s halls, had gasped in appall and chucked a tea towel at the mass of blonde hair, with all her force. “Keira!”

“No need for ostentatious outrage and virginal blushing, Triss,” Keira had smirked. “I’m sure you’ve considered it before…”

Triss’s face had twisted in an almost comically condescending grimace. “Keira. We’ve known Tissaia since we were shorter than a stool and personally, I cherish her almost like a daughter would their- stop- stop that, you fool! Are you serious right now?”

But no amount of scolding could sway Keira’s lewd chuckles, the obscene hand gestures, or the filthy moans that had accompanied them. Nor could any amount of scolding sway Keira’s steadfast belief that nothing would be worse than attending a screaming contest between Stregobor and Tissaia. Damned be the fact that Cintra had been at the brink of a war and damned be the fact that Temeria was next.

“The bushes Stregobor mistakes for eyebrows are far more frightening than Emhyr, Merigold.”

The decision had been made :

Triss would be traveling to Aretuza alone.

……

Triss had always been skilled in adjusting her countenance to suit the circumstances she found herself in.

It was something that Vanielle of Brugge had recognized within her when she was younger, and once the revelation had been out in the open – a kindly offered gift from Vanielle towards Triss who had desperately needed to hear she was doing _something_ right – Triss grasped at it with selfish hands and latched on for dear life.

Ever since that day, she had always layered her voice, shifted her tone, fluttered her eyelashes; whatever the situation called for, an assiduous amalgamation of her own body’s resonant capabilities.

The times when she wasn’t somehow undertaking that task, not even subconsciously, were few and very far in between.

In Saffron and Pepper, draped over a comfortable seat and warmed by the taste of chamomile tea – an odd request the tavern owner had nonetheless dared not refuse her – Triss stared with gentle eyes at Margarita Laux-Antille as she approached, and mused, wistfully, that this was one of those rare moments.

“Triss Merigold, you stunner,” Margarita grinned, leaning down over the table to peck Triss on two full cheeks. “Wives ought to hurry and blind their loyal men.”

Triss laughed and motioned for the empty seat next to her. “And men should rush to hide their lovely wives,” she smirked, and watched as Margarita’s brow bounced before she settled near her.

“Has it really been so long then, since we last met?” Margarita sighed longingly and signaled the waitron with a wave of her hand. He needn’t have even come to the table; apparently the owners were already familiar with her preferences. This did not surprise Triss. Margarita had a penchant for lavish taverns and a high enough tolerance for alcohol to match. “So long your preferences have shifted?”

“Barely,” Triss murmured, taking a sip of her tea. “Only expanded, just a little.” She winked.

“Oh but to have your youth, little Merigold…” Margarita shook her head dramatically but then halted abruptly, slowly grimacing at Triss’s choice of drink, “… which is at the moment so foolishly underappreciated.”

Triss rolled her eyes and waited for the servant to place Margarita’s wine in front of her before speaking again.

“Rita, please,” her fond exasperation was palpable, “you only talk like this when you’ve got your romances all up in a twist.”

Margarita hummed and nodded in confirmation. “Sadly, you are correct,” she swirled the wine in her glass. “Let’s just say this time there’s a marriage in the mix.”

Triss snorted, but quickly hid her chuckles behind her hand at Rita’s warning scowl. “Forgive me, but since when has that ever mattered to you?”

“It is not his wife per se that irks me, but his infuriating tendency to confound our characters.”

“Hmm,” Triss pursed her lips. “Did he pick out flowers for you, Margarita?”

“How hilarious,” Rita scoffed and narrowed her eyes at her drink. “I awoke one day to find him folding my undergarments away into his wardrobe. Oh what humiliation…”

Triss burst out in wholehearted cackles, ignoring Rita’s frustrated glowers.

Gods had she missed her teacher.

……

“This is where we part, dear one,” Rita inched forward, fingers propping the unruly curls of Triss’s hair behind her ear. “It has been so wonderful to see you again.”

Triss nodded in kind, but frowned soon after. “You’re sure you don’t want to join me in the conclave?”

Margarita shook her head firmly, a sad smile plastering on her lips. “I’ve never been one to get involved in politics, Triss. I’m not planning on starting now.”

“I understand…”

“Do you?” Margarita asked pensively, and Triss’s brow crinkled in confusion. “Be careful Triss. It is simple to be convinced of something when everyone whose opinion you value points to a single direction, even though there is almost always indeed another way,” the back of her fingers traced the line of Triss’s jaw almost woefully before dropping them to her side. “Do not allow yourself to be easily convinced, dear one.”

The way to Aretuza was nerve-wracking and full of resurfacing memories. Triss had not laid eyes on the tower in quite a long time, her feet had not carried her through this route for decades.

She was anxious to enter and realize that everything had indeed changed, that she would not be able to recognize the dark hallways or the classrooms anymore. She was wary of the air floating around her differently than it had once done when she had just been a young novice under Tissaia’s supervision, and she was scared to find that nothing really ever remained constant in her life, not even the trusty old walls of her school.

Dismayed by the perspiration gathering at the nape of her neck, Triss carefully tied up her hair into a low bun and sighed in relief as the cool breeze graced her skin. She loved her hair, but beauty would have to give way to comfort for the time being. After all, Triss had arrived a day earlier, and she doubted anyone significant would greet her at the entrance. No need to fret about appearances quite yet.

With a deep breath and fluid, fast shifting thoughts, Triss pushed open the main gates and stepped inside, one foot after the other. The old, magnificent chandelier she had been taken with when she was a mere child was still dangling proudly from the ceiling when Triss glanced up, and it was a relieved grin that spread across her face as she finally moved forward, a bit more light on her feet.

In the distance, she could hear hushed laughter and murmurs reverberating in the long-winded corridor, and Triss followed their trail to the familiar stretch of space that hosted the dining hall, running her fingertips across the walls as she went.

That had been a change alright; the candid and unrestrained giggles released so brazenly into the ether, as if Tissaia de Vries could not determine to whom each one belonged and proceed to have them mop the grounds for a fortnight.

As soon as Triss appeared inside the hall, the giddy whispers ceased precipitously and the once lively group of girls huddled by the buffet at the center of the room became as demure and hushed as a crowd at a funeral.

Triss fought off the involuntary furrow of her brows and flashed her pearly teeth generously instead.

“I apologize for the intrusion, girls,” she offered, running her eyes over their worried frowns. “Please don’t mind me.”

When she received no response, Triss cracked another smile and nodded her farewell. Her intention had not been to stifle their cheerful ambience. Something in their current attitude tipped her as to the fact that they had most probably not been permitted out to the hall at such a time, yet she had neither reason nor intention of reporting them to their superintendents.

She didn’t have to anyways; little did they know that Tissaia de Vries could sniff out an Aretuza student from miles away. She had probably already figured out their little mischief.

But as she was strolling across to the exit, to head to the office, a youthful, spirited voice gave her pause.

“You’re Lady Merigold,” a girl uttered, in thinly veiled awe. “Advisor to King Foltest.”

Triss blinked at the door before a full-fledged beam broke out. She was usually not recognized without her tresses flowing freely on her shoulders, and this impromptu acknowledgement felt _terrific._

She turned around, amused crinkles near her eyes. “Indeed,” she assured. “And you are?”

“… Arvana, my Lady.” The girl’s classmates exchanged curious looks.

Triss hummed softly at the lot of them. The girl who had spoken was staring up under blonde bangs with dark blue, attentive eyes and her hands clasped in front of her. Calloused knuckles and a practiced ease on her face. Triss recognized that ease. She had plastered it on her own face many times before. _She must be one of the older ones._

“Well,” Triss gazed at her below the thickness of her lashes and walked closer, extending a friendly hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Arvana.”

Arvana only spared one look at Triss’s rings before she slid her palm into hers and shook it decisively. “And an honor to meet you, Lady Merigold. Rectoress de Vries has often mentioned your name in class.” Triss quirked a brow appreciatively, a mental image materializing in her brain, of Tissaia weaponizing her academic achievements against the new students as she once did to Triss with deliberate mentions of Francesca Findabair and Philippa Eilhart.

“All good things, I hope,” her eyes sparkled.

Arvana smirked. “Mostly, my Lady.” The girl’s daring expression took her by surprise.

Triss clutched at her necklace dramatically and released an exasperated, melodramatic gasp.

It elicited several giggles from the girls surrounding her, which pleased Triss greatly, as she had never sought to be perceived as a cynical old hag who had no time for anything other than sophisticated politics and grandiloquent debates.

Triss recalled with staggering clarity being at the sprightly age of sixteen, commenting on older sorceresses with her classmates every time they had the opportunity to do so without getting reprimanded for it. Since then, she had vowed to make the conscious effort of being likeable.

“Oh I should not be so surprised,” Triss sighed with a conspirational grin playing at her lips, “after all, Tissaia-”

“- would like to know why a dozen of her students are currently frolicking in the hall instead of tending to the numerous tasks they have been surely assigned for the week.”

As quickly as the girls had slipped into an air of relaxation, they regained their tight postures and docile expressions. Entertained, Triss watched as they even formed somewhat of a line to greet their principal.

A memory of Keira Metz once dryly retorting to Tissaia’s chastisement with “as you command, General de Vries” unwillingly popped up before her eyes and Triss hastily pulled her gums between her teeth to prevent the snort from tumbling out of her mouth.

She felt a tad sorry for them, quivering like frightened rabbits at the end of a hunter’s arrow, but remained silent. Tissaia was staring at her too, and Triss felt as if she were already in hot water for indulging them for so long despite being aware that they were most certainly violating strict rules. It would not be wise to interfere with her training policies any further.

“Rectoress,” another girl mumbled. “We were only marveling at the delicacies.”

 _Wrong move_ , Triss thought.

Tissaia’s eyes left Triss’s to hook at the girl’s. “Is that why you were brought to this academy Miss Earvond? To salivate over a few pieces of smoked lobster?” Tissaia mocked, the lilt of her voice piercing. “All of you to your rooms. No more bickering in the hallways. I will revisit this unfortunate mishap later. Off you go!”

The girls scurried off without another word. Only Arvana’s step wavered as she turned to bow her head and smile timidly at Triss before catching up to her classmates.

“As for you…” Tissaia started when the sound of retreating footsteps had faded away into non-existence, “you’ve not been here for longer than ten minutes and already you’re stirring up trouble.”

Triss tilted her head with evident affection in her lopsided grin. “You wound me, Tissaia,” she toyed with a cracker from the platter in front of her. “I’ve not been here in more than a decade and already you’re reproaching me.”

Tissaia seemed… older, even though realistically Triss knew that was not feasible.

But there was lassitude etched into the faint circles below her eyes and the wrinkles around her mouth had become deeper, more sharply outlined.

She had always preferred solitude, holed up in her office with that awful pipe between her fingertips and a haunting indifference clouding her features. Her obsession with order and the perpetual thin lining of her lips had contributed nil to her approachability in the eyes of her kin.

Yet when Triss peered into her blues, the faults blurred into the background and she could only see a treasured mentor, the stern but attentive mother she had never truly had.

Tissaia hummed, a reluctant tug at the edge of her lips. “Were you expecting histrionic weeps and overaffectionate embraces?” Her eyes latched onto Triss’s fingers as she displaced a cracker from the meticulous array. “That is extremely unhygienic, Miss Merigold.”

Triss doubted sincerely it was the unhygienic part of it that bothered the woman rather than the fact that she had meddled with the fastidious display of foods. Still, she humored Tissaia.

“I _was_ going to eat it,” then with a playful grin she plucked it out of the plate and tossed it in her mouth, with mirth swirling in her irises at Tissaia’s twitching fingers.

Finally Tissaia heaved a sigh and glanced away. “Have I really instilled no good manners in you…”

Triss chuckled and left the table to walk towards Tissaia. “If this is your reaction to me eating a small treat from the smorgasbord, you should see how masterfully Keira Metz guzzles down a magnum of wine and replaces it with mauve water at the castle’s banquets.”

Tissaia’s answering grimace was a sight to behold. Triss’s shoulders shook harder from laughter than a willow’s leaves in the midst of autumn wind.

“Oh Rectoress,” her hands settled cordially on Tissaia’s elbows. “How I have missed you.”

Tissaia de Vries did not return the sentiment in words, but the minute tightening of her hold around Triss’s wrist and the semblance of a smile pulling at her mouth were all the validation Triss needed.

“Speaking of Keira Metz,” Tissaia spoke in a loud exhale, her eyes quickly fleeting around the space as if in search of the sorceress. “Where is that blonde rascal?”

Triss pursed her lips and took a step back, staring skywards for a moment in thought. She definitely could not relay Keira’s inventive and colorful descriptions to Tissaia, though she was certain that had Keira actually been there, she would not have needed the inspiration of more than two tankards of ale to shamelessly share them with Tissaia herself.

“She decided not to attend,” Triss suggested instead, eyes back on Tissaia’s. “She felt it was her civic duty to remain in Temeria so as to ensure Willemer wouldn’t remain undisturbed for a prolonged period of time.”

“How honorable,” Tissaia intoned wryly. Then she easily sized Triss up, taking a few more moments to speak. “Come along then, this way. We have plenty to discuss and such little time.”

“Indeed,” Triss agreed, following Tissaia to another door at the other side of the room, towards the yard. Triss had wanted to move further inside the school, towards one of the accommodation sections, but it seemed Tissaia had different plans. “How is the academy faring, nowadays?”

Tissaia looped her arm through Triss’s as she wiggled her fingers and the door opened effortlessly. “It is simply faring. As it always has done.”

 _So deliberately vague,_ Triss pondered, but stored the thought away for later.

“And you?” asked Triss. “How are you, Tissaia?”

“I am well,” Tissaia led them through a long loggia whose arches framed the vision of the untamed sea beneath Thanedd Isle. Triss felt the breeze hike up her dress and she shivered slightly, clutching at Tissaia more securely. “But as much as I appreciate the concern, let’s not waste time on such frivolous questions. Tell me, how are things in the capital?”

Triss’s gaze, which had remained resolute on the waves beneath them, turned to Tissaia’s profile. “Is this the Chapter’s interest, or Tissaia de Vries’s?”

Tissaia did not even afford her a glance. “Either. Both. Is there truly a difference? Does it matter?”

Triss nipped at her bottom lip but chose not to force open that can of worms. Instead, she looked out towards the sea again, thinking of Saffron and Pepper, the smell of sulfur permeating the air, the brininess of her chamomile tea and the much more pleasant discussion she had held with Margarita Laux-Antille just that morning.

“The capital is also faring,” Triss assured, turning over the words in her head carefully. “Well, of course; as well as the circumstances allow. We are still recovering from the epidemic, but Foltest is a zealous king. He has invested quite a lot into Temeria’s trade market with his latest policies.”

“And the Nilfgaardians,” Tissaia prodded. “Is he zealous about them, too?”

Triss pressed her tongue to her molars. Tissaia was ruthlessly grilling her. “He is… skeptical.”

“There’s not much to be skeptical of,” Tissaia huffed. She opened another door at the end of the corridor and finally, they were engulfed by the warmth of the school again. “Queen Calanthe has marched to Marnadal. There will soon be a battle there.”

“I am aware.”

“And you are also aware of the fact that Temeria is not too far-removed from Cintra on the map, certainly.”

“Certainly.”

“So hypothetically speaking, of course, if Cintra were to fall, King Foltest’s skepticism would speedily shift to reasonable alarm,” Tissaia tugged at her arm and urged them to the left, in a hallway Triss recognized as the Way of Remembrance, where several portraits of elder instructors and notable students decorated the walls on each side.

“And on such occasion, he would most likely wish to, justifiably, see to it that his kingdom’s development and safety remain unhindered by an imminent threat of Nilfgaardians, not too far removed from Temeria on the map as they would be,” Tissaia’s steps became more unhurried, as if slowed by the very weight of her words, “by interfering with their steady progression up the map.”

“Of course,” Triss murmured, letting her gaze scan through each painting at her righthand side.There was one of Tissaia there too, as magnificent and cunning as ever. “Of course, hypothetically speaking, some would be wary of such an unfortunate occurrence in Cintra because of the growing concern for Aretuza, which is indeed faring, but evidently neither well nor unwell.

"And so perilous would this steady rise of Nilfgaard to the North be, that this growing concern would speedily shift into warranted anxiety, enough to make some consider joining in what some hope would be King Foltest’s efforts,” she walked as slowly as her former teacher. “Does such an endeavor, hypothetically speaking, seem straightforward and sensible to you, Tissaia?”

Tissaia halted her movements and turned to Triss abruptly.

“Sometimes, Triss, what is straightforward is not what is sensible,” she stated, her voice impassioned and uncompromising. “Sometimes you’re presented with a false choice; a dirt track with a split end and two diverging paths. You may opt to take whichever one you know or believe will keep you safe, but life cares not for what you believe or know. In reality, there is no choice at all.

"The world is changing, and as mages with a lengthy future ahead of us and a rich past behind us, we have the privilege of being able to see further, strategize and hypothesize, for the times when it counts the most. Notwithstanding that privilege, we too, must adapt to that change. There is nothing straightforward about that, Triss Merigold, yet it is the most sensible task we may ever undertake.”

 _The times when it counts the most…_ Triss stopped, swallowing to wet her throat before her eyes shifted over Tissaia’s shoulder onto the large, imposing portrait of a woman behind her, framed between two other paintings which were so negligible next to such grandeur, their otherwise stunningly vibrant colors almost became one with the dull wall in insignificance.

It was of Philippa Eilhart, whose sharp features even in static, lifeless form, somehow managed to so violently tear the breath out from the shelter of Triss’s lungs.

Unlike the rest of the portrayed, Philippa was not staring away or to the side of the frame, but straight at the audience, her eyes two obscure pools of ink. Triss wondered who had been given the seemingly impossible task of attempting to capture the essence of Philippa Eilhart within the tight boundaries of a canvas.

However had that person succeeded in immortalizing Philippa’s ascertained posture and arrogant smirk?

It was a mystery to Triss. Regardless, with a few more seconds of taking in the painting, she decided compliments were in order to whomever it had been; there were nearly no faults in the painting’s accuracy.

There was only one, and that was the lack of a distinctive gleam in Philippa’s dark eyes. A dangerous, stunning glint which could bring the mightiest of men to their knees.

But it was an unjust criticism, she knew, because no amount of artistic dexterity could ever create such fierceness that would compare with the real thing.

“Trying times are upon us…” Triss echoed distant words of the past. There was a bitter smile imprinted onto her lips and she averted her gaze from the recesses of portrait-Philippa’s taunting eyes. “Speak plainly, Tissaia. Tell me what it is that you want.”

There was a crease at Tissaia’s eyebrow, before she too turned and laid her eyes where Triss’s were resting just seconds ago.

She exhaled soundly in realization. “It would appear that you already know. I presume I am either just one out of a long list of people you have already had this conversation with, or at the very least, not the first who has been so candid about it?”

Triss tightened her lips and shook her head. “Either. Both. Does it matter?”

Tissaia’s eyes latched onto hers grimly.

“No,” she whispered. “I suppose it does not.”

…...

Vanielle found her at the lounge on the second day, a few hours before what would prove to be the most momentous gathering in Triss’s life to date. Most of the mages had already migrated onto the great hall, where the consideration would take place. Triss had favored a space less anxiety-inducing, though it appeared her plan to distance herself from the rest of the sorcerers for as long as she could had not been foolproof.

“Triss Merigold, if my eyes do not deceive me,” she greeted, advancing on Triss with intent in her steps and a tight grasp on her chalice of wine. “It is good to see you here.”

Triss flashed her teeth in an earnest effort to smile. “Vanielle,” she greeted. She was uncertain of how to proceed, and so she maintained the friendly disposition instead.

“I’ll admit I’m a bit surprised that you are here alone,” Vanielle continued, undisturbed by Triss’s reluctance to engage in small talk. “After all, Fercart of Cidaris has followed the others in the deliberation room.”

On the outside, Triss displayed no shift from her current mood; she kept up the smile and her posture remained confident and open. On the inside, she seethed with the instinctive need to balk at this new piece of information.

She had known Fercart had left the mainland – he had done so a while ago, away in business, but when Keira and herself had last contacted him about the conclave he had never once hinted as to an intention to appear. Moreover, Triss had not seen him yesterday nor today, and the cynical part of her wondered if he had been loitering around Gors Velen before coming here, and why.

“Your surprise is warranted, of course,” Triss responded finally, turning over the book in her hand with finality. There was no viable option out of this discussion. “But I sought some peace of mind before joining the crowd. A perspective pure of any external influences, if you will, in preparation of the deliberation.”

“I see. And have you accomplished what you sought to achieve, Triss?”

“It’s a work in progress.”

“Well,” Vanielle motioned a reassuring hand, ignoring the obvious remark. “I’m sure you will manage. You have always been exceptionally bright, Triss.”

“Thank you,” Triss nodded appreciatively, though she felt anything but. “Though I think that may be overstating things.”

“Not at all. If it weren’t the absolute truth, you wouldn’t have been posted in the Temerian Royal Council, Triss. A station of immense prestige and unquestionable influence. You must be proud to represent the King’s interests on such a day.”

Triss bit her tongue. This felt an awful lot like the initial stages of political courting. Exactly what she had been trying to forestall ever since her loaded dialogue with Tissaia.

“That is certainly correct,” Triss asserted, but did not specify what.

But Vanielle had just sunk her teeth in deep and refused to let go. “Which part of it?”

 _It truly did not matter, did it? This was all a game of twisted grandiloquence and diplomatic mind games._ Triss mused angrily.

“All of it.” Triss rose from her seat. She smiled politely. “If you will excuse me Vanielle, I ought to make my way to the lavatory now. It was a delight to talk with you, as always.”

……

_Marnadal is Nilfgaard’s. Eist Tuirseach is dead. Nilfgaard is attacking Cintra._

A slew of information reached Triss’s ears as the remaining mages rushed to get to the deliberation hall. Everything was happening quickly; faster than anticipated and much too precipitous to digest. All of a sudden, Tissaia’s hypotheses seemed more of an unavoidable reality than they did a choice to mull over.

Caught in a near mindless trance and hard-pressed to do anything but go with the stream of bodies, Triss moved from the lounge towards the corridor that led to the deliberation area.

Absently, she wondered if the mages had already been divided into camps, and if her position had already been allocated without her own input. She wondered if Vanielle and Tissaia believed with utmost certainty that she would heed their well-placed warnings and planted ideas, and she also wondered if she herself had perhaps already made a decision, subconsciously, without recognizing it.

Rita’s words rang loudly in her ears. _Do not allow yourself to be easily –_

“Triss!”

It did not matter that several bodies bumped into hers as she stiffened on the spot, nor did it matter that Triss received several vicious looks for it. The only element Triss could register was the familiar timbre of that voice, the profound intonation, and the violet eyes staring back at her as she turned to acknowledge it.

“Yennefer,” she exhaled, inching forward. Yennefer of Vengerberg back in Aretuza. Yennefer of Vengerberg standing in front of her with the same type of ennui she had possessed since ever Triss had first met her. Yennefer of Vengerberg whom she had not met with in over two decades. “I tried finding you for years,” she implored, because it was true, and Triss was tired of beating around the bush these past few days.

But her heart had peeked too soon through her words, Triss realized. The sentiment had spilled over much too sincerely and unexpectedly; Triss could discern the resentment for earnest emotion in Yennefer’s eyes as they briefly fleeted from hers. Her admission was ignored.

“What are you all doing here?” Inquired Yennefer quickly.

“An emergency conclave of the Northern mages,” Triss explained, brow creasing. If Yennefer was not there for the gathering, what was she there for? “Nilfgaard took Marnadal.”

Yennefer’s eyes cut back to hers.

Triss stared into her. There were many other sentences she wished she could string together. “They’re attacking Cintra,” was what she safely settled for instead.

……

The hands perched on the table next to her were trembling, from anger or something else – Triss could not be sure. She could not be certain of anything that had to do with Yennefer anymore, and it was an understanding to attain as valuable as it was painful.

Despite Triss’s continuous efforts, their eyes did not meet but once during the entire time of the meeting, and even then, all Triss recognized in the deep violets was a characteristic, cold aloofness.

The moment the verdict had been reached and mages started filtering out of the room, unburdened by the knowledge that they had condemned an entire city to its doom, so did Yennefer, striding quickly and determinedly as far away from them as possible. Tissaia followed as if hot coals burnt underneath her feet, and Triss stayed behind, limbless in the swarm of whispering mages and unsure of what to do with herself.

Triss did not call after either of them, but her eyes hardened and she snarled in frustration as she turned around to stare daggers into the wall, her palm heavy on her forehead. What did this mean for Temeria? Was Triss meant to stand by and watch as Nilfgaard marched upwards, undisturbed? Was this the dirt track with a split end in front of her?

Triss’s mind flashed back to that night outside Acorn Bay, years ago, when she had last seen - 

“Merigold,” a voice spoke, urgently and sternly. Triss’s eyes shifted and she saw Sabrina Glevissig and Lytta Neyd hovering over her shoulder with intent flashing in their irises.

Triss knew that look. She had been trapped with it already several times these last days. “I will not sit and watch as these bastards stroll their way into the North. Who are we to our kingdoms if we are not willing to fight for them on the battlefield?” Sabrina’s voice lowered to a hiss and she glared discreetly at Stregobor and Artorius as they made their exit. “Damn these fools. I will join Tissaia and the others in the fight.”

When Triss said nothing, Lytta inched forward, gaze unrelenting. “Triss,” she whispered, “you are young, but you are not a fool. I know you’ve a mind for Temeria; otherwise why even show up here? Fercart had decided already before the gathering that he too will be fighting under Vilgefortz’s command. And in spite of your deafening silence, I can feel that you too, have made a decision, which you are wont to sit and mull over until a new dawn breaks. But there is no time, Triss Merigold. There will be few new dawns left to witness for a lot of us unless we act quickly,” Lytta laid her hand on Triss’s palm. “What is your decision, Triss Merigold?”

Over Coral’s shoulder, in the distance stretching outside the doors of the deliberation area, Tissaia and Yennefer were both standing there, a tension so palpable between them that its waves swelled and unfolded and spread to where Triss was standing, feeling alone amongst her own.

But Tissaia smiled then, a genuine, thankful softness on her face, and Triss realized; she realized Yennefer had only come for Tissaia, and it was for her that she would get into the battle squad of mages against Nilfgaard.

And what could Triss do but the same? Her mind had already set her sights on it, Lytta was right, even before the meeting, before Yennefer emerged out of the blue – perhaps even before Tissaia so frankly demanded without actually asking it of her.

Perhaps Triss’s mind had settled on it ever since that road outside Acorn Bay, wedged between her horse and Philippa Eilhart’s infuriatingly knowing dark eyes. _When a fork in the path presents itself, they must come first…_

“I will join you,” she murmured, and lamented the resignation smoldering her voice and the deflation of her shoulders, wondering whether they qualified as what Margarita Laux-Antille had deemed being too easily convinced.

……

“Is now the appropriate time to mention Sabrina poured that ale?”

Triss smiled hesitantly before unceremoniously dropping herself next to Yennefer. She was draped over a ledge, leaning against the stone wall and the rim of the tankard was sitting on her bottom lip as she stared back at Triss with an indecipherable emotion.

How many more times could Triss handle rejection before she finally buckled? It seemed her head was set on finding out. Perhaps the first time she broached the wrong topic. Perhaps there was something more to Yennefer’s reaction upon hearing the name Geralt of Rivia rather than mere prejudice against all witchers.

She would not prod. Triss was very easy to please – she only wished to hold a semi-normal conversation with whom she believed to be her dearest friend before the most non-normal days of her life mercilessly swept her off her feet.

“Wager she poisoned it?” Yennefer finally asked after peering into Triss’s for what felt not unlike eternity.

Triss shrugged and tried to contain her glee. “I wouldn’t put it past her.”

“Mmm.”

That was alright too. They could remain silent. Triss would selfishly hold onto that as firmly as she would hold onto anything else Yennefer offered her.

She was content to just draw her shoulders in and rock her dangling feet back and forth to the numbing sounds of the night surrounding them.

They stayed like that for a while, almost suspended in time and space. Triss felt more at ease than she had probably felt this whole year.

Then, quietly, Yennefer spoke. “You are alone here.”

“I’m with you.” Triss glanced down at her own empty tankard, weighty between her fingertips.

“That’s not what I meant.”

Triss huffed. “I understand very well what you meant. And my answer still stands. I am here, with you.”

“You understand shit-all,” Yennefer pressed on, persistent. “Out there you will no longer be little Merigold of Aretuza, but another mage to paint the hill with her guts and her blood. No amount of huffing and puffing is going to change that, nor am _I_ going to change that. Is she prepared for this reality, the brave Triss Merigold, who has volunteered to fight oh so valiantly for her dear Temeria?”

“Yes.” Triss stated resolutely. _No,_ her head protested. “Do not patronize me, Yenna. I’m well aware of what I signed up for.”

“Then you are even more of a fool than I first imagined.”

Triss’s eyes hardened and she whirled around to glare at Yennefer.

“And what are you then? I’m a dupe but you’re the wise warrior ready to march into battle and die for – and what exactly will you be painting the grass with your blood for, Yennefer? An old woman whom you have spent most of your lifespan resenting?” Triss scoffed and looked away again, towards the fire Tissaia was poking at with Vanielle. “Which one of us is the bigger fool…”

“The one who assumes they can accurately psychoanalyze a situation which they cannot even begin to comprehend.”

“Again with the double standards, Yenna. You claim that I philosophize on your emotions without understanding them and that makes me the greater fool, but _you_ psychoanalyzed _me_ first. Is that then because you feel you comprehend me?”

“I’ve known you since you were a snotty teenager. I comprehend enough.”

“Not nearly!” Triss hissed, and slammed her tankard on the stone next to her. She preferred silence and rejection over such blatant ignorance of her grievances. Yennefer merely quirked a brow at the burst of anger. “You haven’t seen nor spoken to me in years, Yennefer. Not once did you visit me in Temeria, and not once did you leave a trace for me to pick up on. I searched for you for so long, oh how I did… but it was futile. Nobody had noticed nor heard of Yennefer of Vengerberg anywhere near me,” Triss gripped tightly at the ledge. “I saw Margarita more often than I did you.”

Triss could have sworn something molten and hot was shining in Yennefer’s eyes. She could have sworn that had she been able to examine at it over the saturated light of flames, it would have been regret.

“Gods, Yenna,” Triss whispered, slowly losing the bite behind her words. “I saw Philippa Eilhart more often than I did you.”

Yennefer said nothing for a while. She only stared emptily into the sky, head dropped back on the wall.

“That is truly a tragedy,” she exhaled eventually, cracking a shaky smile. “Does she still act as if the Continent should be lining up to eat out of the palm of her hand?”

Triss pursed her lips and shifted her gaze again, towards the razor-like peaks of the mountains she could make out in the horizon. She knew Yennefer was changing the subject.

“Only a little,” Triss murmured.

Yennefer hummed. “And did she try to flatter her way into your bedsheets?”

Triss’s eyes jumped back to Yennefer’s. “Of course not.”

Her friend’s brows bounced in doubt.

Triss tsked and shook her head. “I am in no mood to talk of Philippa Eilhart, Yennefer. Let’s not allow her to dominate a space she’s not even in to begin with.”

“Alright,” Yennefer sighed. “As you wish, Triss. Drink with me.”

Yennefer produced another tankard from her side.

“Let’s drink to make up for lost time. So that I can figure out what there is left to comprehend.”

……

The only way was left.

Behind her, deafening silence. In front of her, the shrill shrieks and screams of dying men. And in the distance, fire. Flaring, unforgiving fire. 

Triss groaned and her eyes rolled back in blood-curdling pain. The pads of her fingers pressed firmly on the ground underneath her, trying to get a feel for something real. Something that was not the horrible itching at her collarbone or the burning flesh of her neck.

She sobbed, unable to distract her mind from the ache blazing in her body. No one she recognized was alive. Rolled on her side, Triss could see with clarity she did not welcome the mutilated body of Lytta Neyd, lolled lifelessly across from her. Further away, what she assumed were Yoël’s scattered remnants. And down the road, a lonely arrow sticking upwards; though she could not see him from this low on the ground, she knew it was a dead Atlan Kerk.

She felt the tears slipping over the bridge of her nose and to the side of her temple, but there was no force left in her to wipe them away. Whatever little will she had left, pooled somewhere in the tips of her toes and the dark nooks of her mind, she had to expend wisely.

 _Get up,_ Triss yelled in her mind. _Get up or you will die here._

In a fit of desperation and fear during the battle, as she had been holding the gate, Triss had been on the brink of uttering a spell to portal herself to Maribor, before the face of a soldier she would never forget pushed between Triss’s branches and with it, a torch of fire.

Triss thought of using that spell now, muttering it with a croaked voice, but she knew there was not a drop of magic left to spend in her. It was pointless.

Slowly, and with frantic moans along each step of the process, Triss pushed herself up to her elbows. She chomped down on her gums so fiercely they split, the familiar taste of iron flooding her taste buds.

_Get up!_

Triss fumbled with a ridge on the wall, a cranny amongst stones which was rough and dirty to the touch. She channeled all her strength into pulling herself to the wall, but twice her fingers slipped from the stone and painfully landed on the hard soil next to her. So she tried again, extending her arm out once more in spite of the creaking of her bones, a telltale sign that her reach far exceeded her grasp.

On the fourth attempt, she managed it.

Shaking, she pressed her back against the humid stone and with a loud cry she drew her knees to her chest, thrusting herself upwards gradually. She took a few deep, anguished breaths, and tested her power to move. It was more staggering than walking, but it would have to do.

The only way was left.

Triss was wailing. She was cursing herself for it, too, because if any Nilfgaardian was still hanging about the fort they would probably be able to locate where she was and finish her off within minutes. But the soreness on the exposed flesh of her chest was torturous, chafed against the threads of her dress, and Triss bit her lip and ripped at the seams of the fabric on her shoulder, muffling her grunts by burying her face in the wall.

She shuffled forward, out of the gate and to the left, using the crumbled wall as her guide and support. She dared not spare a second glance at Coral’s corpse. In the darkness of the night, Triss was stumbling on rocks, fallen trunks of trees and what the last bits of her functioning conscience supplied was dead Nilfgaardians.

The man who had been cradling her head in his lap had ran for help and promised he would come back, but that was long ago. Too long.

She was well and truly alone.

……

“Merigold.”

There were damp kerchiefs and folded over pieces of linen cooling down Triss’s skin where it burnt the most. Makeshift bandages, she thought. Triss registered them first, and only later did she realize with blurry eyes that she was no longer by the keep’s walls but propped up against a large tree trunk, gown half-torn off her shoulder.

Was this real?

“Merigold! Come on, don’t faint on me again. We need to get out of here.”

Everything was hurting and in worlds far away from them the sound of swords clashing and battle cries rang harshly in her ears. The earth was shuddering and vibrating from the steady thump of horse hooves on the ground.

“Pick her up!” The stern voice bellowed again. Dreamily, Triss mused that it sounded somewhat familiar. She was helpless to do anything but cry in agony as two arms hooked underneath her armpits and urged her to stand. “Lead the way!” The coverings slipped from her body and as Triss’s head slouched forward in exhaustion she caught a glimpse of her wounds.

The sight must have been so horrifying that it knocked her unconscious, once again comatose and pliant in the strangers’ arms.

…..

_Can you hold the gate?_

_Do not stop, Triss._

_Can anyone hear me?_

Triss’s eyes flew open as soon as she felt fingertips nudge the skin of her neck. _Get up! Get up or you will die here. Hold the gate!_

With a sudden yell and a hand shooting upwards, Triss grasped at the offending limbs and squawked out a weak but effective spell; soon the screams of a male voice reverberated around her and Triss winced and tumbled back, both in terror and fatigue. “Fucking wench! My hand! I can’t move my hand!”

The shouting persisted but all Triss could sense was mind-numbing torment, as if the searing pain was tearing apart the confines of her flesh and scratching at the fissures of her chest to clamber out of her. She had employed too much energy.

 _Magic has a price,_ a vision of Tissaia in front of her mahogany podium in Aretuza flashed before Triss.

Was this real?

“Fucking bitch! I can’t feel my hand!”

Her eyes rolled to the back of her head, and she started convulsing against her will.

Was any of it real?

_We need to get out of here!_

“Merigold!”

_Who are we to our kingdoms if we are not willing to fight for them on the battlefield?_

“Sabrina, get Philippa here.”

“She’s-”

“Get Philippa!”

In her slapdash state, another vision of a grey-haired, tall man plagued her brain. His eyes were razor-sharp and his lips a line too slim.

_Why help those who won’t listen?_

In the dream – for that was the only way to refer to an image so intangible and hazy – Triss tried to grip at him with bloody fingers. _Are you real? Geralt, is that you?_

“Triss.”

_Am I dead? Are the Gods torturing me?_

“You are alive.”

_Another mage to paint the hill with her guts and her blood…_

“Forgive me, Triss Merigold.”

And then, darkness.

…..


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Enjoying the view?” asked Triss, voice lilted.
> 
> “Immeasurably,” Philippa affirmed. “Yourself?”
> 
> “I more enjoy the company,” Triss quipped and bit her lip. Philippa only smirked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> green apples are something that can actually be so personal

**Parenthesis III :  
From My Green Apple Tree**

_“The woman said to the serpent, ‘We may eat fruit from the trees in the garden, but God did say, ‘You must not eat fruit from the tree that is in the middle of the garden, and you must not touch it, or you will die.’”_

_“You will not certainly die,” the serpent said to the woman. “For God knows that when you eat from it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.”_

_When the woman saw that the fruit of the tree was good for food and pleasing to the eye, and also desirable for gaining wisdom, she took some and ate it.”_

**_­- Genesis 3_ **

…..

Jarre licked at the pads of his index finger and thumb before snuffing the light out of the flickering candle on his work bench. By his side, the grandchildren, enthusiastic and overeager for him to continue as always, widened their eyes, clasped their fingers and pouted their lips. It was no wonder that they preferred stories like these to his inspired tale of glory, gore, and war in Brenna, though he had devoted a significantly larger amount of time to perfecting his recounting of the latter than the former.

He sighed. _Youth… oh what to do…_

“Well. Where was I?” Jarre scratched at his hairline idly with the hand still left attached to his wrist.

“The part where a sorceress rested at the temple, pa!”

Oh yes… the sorceress with hair the color of fresh chestnuts and eyes as kind as a patient mother’s. With freckles speckling her rosy cheeks like miniature nubeculae magellani and lips full and soft and worn down by sadness. _Yes,_ he thought. _I remember that sorceress very well._

Jarre cleared his throat, stared at his grandchildren a bit longer for dramatic effect, and then started his retelling.

“Though I could not have known at the time, so young as I was, and despite my wealthy and vast knowledge of socioeconomic and political happenings in the history of the Continent, this sorceress was weighed down by certain troubles of the past, present and the distant future altogether.

"At first glance, this constitutes of course a peculiar phenomenon, because though you may find yourselves one day, my grandchildren, fearful of the next dawn; very rarely will you be frightened of the next thousands of dawns,” Jarre coughed and lifted a cup of water to his lips.

“In hindsight, however, this was completely ordinary for a woman who had near eternity ahead of her and half a century on her tail, as the Revered Mother Nenneke used to say… She had dark, cunning figures over her shoulder dictating her future, and towed demons under her cloaks. Demons of the past which haunted her. I could never inquire about them no matter the intensity of my curiosity or my innate compassion. The Revered Mother Nenneke never allowed it. ‘Some matters are beyond even the greatest scholars’ understanding, Jarre, and better left alone,’ she had said. Of course I later myself understood some part of it… oh how I understood, after that fateful battle in Brenna…”

“Bah, grandpa! Not again, have mercy!” One of his grandchildren scoffed and wiggled on the spot as if ready to bolt out the door. “Tell us instead the name, pa! What was the name of the sorceress with the demons under her cape?”

Outside, the wind was howling and a common nighthawk perched on top of the barbed line for drying the clothes was crying above the pandemonium. They were getting increasingly audacious with their proximity to the huts in the past year.

Jarre stared apprehensively beyond the glass pane of the window and into the darkness outside, mentally praying to Melitele that the bird not try to fly into the home. His son-in-law, the good-for-nothing superstitious hoodwink, would throw a fit about birds, hidden messages and the foretelling of death.

“Pa! The name!”

The foretelling of death… yes, the ghastly foreboding of the inevitable.

“It was Triss Merigold,” Jarre nodded his head, as if verifying with himself that he recalled the name properly. How could he forget? He had often dreamed about her sorrowful eyes and sharp tongue throughout both his younger and his older years, in several different contexts. “Triss Merigold of Maribor, or, as more commonly referred to, the Fourteenth of the Hill…”

…..

They sent the army away in large groupings and fractions. King Vizimir and his entourage had left first thing in the morning, and Foltest had departed the next day. It offered some of them more time; to tarry behind on the Hill, to mourn the dead, to talk with the nearby villagers, or, in Philippa’s case, to wrestle out bread from one of the hastily abandoned carts of supplies at the Western barracks and pluck a green apple from the offshoot of a lonesome tree close by.

Philippa threw it in the air and caught it again, pleased with the vibrant color of its skin.

She bundled it up in white linen and strolled through the field at a lazy pace. The sky was finally clear of the plumes of smoke, but there were crows, vultures and condors circling the charred grounds. The macabre silence which had so unexpectedly sprawled over the hill was deafening. Philippa stared at the top near the ramshackle fort, where the tall obelisk towered over the peonies and the swards. A few locals were gathered around, studying the inscriptions with flowers in their hands and somber dispositions.

She could not hang around there much longer. There were matters to take care of and nations to oversee. This place of death was for common peasants to dawdle in and revere in their epic tales.

Not for Philippa Eilhart, whose most mundane task to date had been nothing short of saving the fate of a few kingdoms.

Into the large pavilion ahead of her, Triss Merigold was leaning against puffed up pillows, face devoid of any of its seemingly congenital amiability. Her hands were limp by her sides and she only stared up briefly to acknowledge Philippa’s presence before redirecting her vacant stare towards the tentpole in the far corner.

Well aware that the woman needed peace, Philippa said nothing. She went to one of the workbenches and rested her valuable finds there. To her left, there was a wooden bowl of water, and she dipped her palms in it, rinsing off any remaining dirt from her visit to the deserted encampments.

Once she felt content with the modicum of cleanliness she could achieve so far from her luxurious bathtub in Montecalvo, she twisted around, leaning against the wood and fashioning the apple into small pieces with her dagger.

Triss was still staring resolutely away from her, but Philippa paid the brazen dismissal no mind. The apple tasted like soothing ice applied to sticky skin amidst sizzling hot summers. It was more zesty than good wine and more refreshing than any soiled water she had drank in the past few days.

It felt like life where there had only been death, and Philippa hummed, throwing her head back in satisfaction.

_Blessed be the muggin who chose to leave this behind._

In spite of her eyes being closed, Philippa could just _feel_ the weight of Triss’s gaze on her.

“Would you like some?” She more mumbled than spoke, fearful of the taste fizzling out on the tip of her tongue. The flavor really was divine.

She did not open her eyes.

“Is this an illusion?” croaked Triss. Her voice sounded like granite scraping against rough sandpaper.

Philippa raised a brow. “The apple or myself?”

Triss did not respond. Philippa heard a rustle of bedsheets and her silent grunts of pain, and cracked open an eye to watch Triss as she shuffled her feet over the edge of the bed, sitting upright.

Even like this, dressed down to a myriad of bandages, the singed edges of her hair pulled back in an unkept knot, Triss appeared exceptionally youthful. It was a paradox in and of itself; she should have looked older and more worn out than ever after what she had been through. But in fact Triss had never seemed smaller, folded over between a puddle of sheets and buried in an ugly, flimsy dress shirt three sizes too big for her.

Finally, she sighed. “How bad is it?”

Philippa took a moment to turn the question over in her mind before popping another piece of the apple in her mouth. She stared at Triss’s bound chest, gauzes poking out from the plunge of her shirt, and then back at Triss.

“I do not know,” she supplied honestly. “I was not in charge of your treatment.”

Triss stared torpidly down at the lapel of the shirt. With a crease between her brows, she lifted a hand to pull the fabric forth, but almost instantly recoiled in pain, screwing her eyes shut.

“Who was?” She asked after a moment of labored breathing.

“Several people, apparently,” Philippa stood perched on the bench for a bit longer before pushing off it and walking towards the bed slowly. “Vilgefortz most certainly cast a numbing spell while you were crossing the woods; otherwise you would not have outlived the pain. Later, probably a herd of self-proclaimed healers,” she stopped, looking down at Triss for a second before lowering herself down to the level of her eyes. “You gave Tissaia de Vries quite the scare,” she spoke gently.

Triss’s eyes shifted at the mention of Tissaia’s name, but admirably so, she visibly refused to ask the obvious question. Philippa tilted her head, studying the woman before deigning to answer it anyways.

“The Brotherhood has made several inquiries on the current state of affairs and the mages’ involvement in this battle. She had to leave for Aretuza soon after we got to you.”

A little wisp of hair swirled on top of Triss’s eyebrow as she shook her head softly, pressing her lips together. Her fingers were clutching tightly at the edge of the mattress underneath. Outside, birds were cawing and whatever fortunate trees had endured Yennefer’s wrath rustled with the gusts of wind.

Her stare caught Philippa’s. “And you?”

Philippa focused on the openness of Triss’s eyes; weary, but as unreserved in their pleas as they always had been. A patchwork quilt of sentiments and revelations.

She suddenly felt inundated with the need to grasp Triss from the shoulders and shake some sense into her. The young sorceress had very nearly died on the hill because of this mawkishness just a few days ago, yet there she was, still overflowing with perilous sincerity.

Conversations with Triss were becoming increasingly more like attempting to solve acrostics and navigate riddles of heartfelt emotion. Philippa had no patience for either.

“And I am here,” she murmured, and did not offer time for the declaration to settle before raising another slice of the green apple in the tiny space between them. “Eat this,” she pointed the fruit towards Triss, “you did not live through war to die of starvation, Triss.”

Triss fixed her with another intense, pensive stare before hesitantly pinching the slice with a thumb and forefinger from the warmth of Philippa’s palm. But she did not make a move to eat it; only twisted it between lithe fingers and regarded as if it were a peculiar new artefact to decipher.

Then, quietly : “Tell me how bad it is,” the words cracked and caved under the emotion. Her eyes sought out Philippa’s again. “Please,” she whispered.

Philippa pursed her lips. She left the precious tablecloth of apple next to her and set her hands on either side of Triss’s on the bed, just a hair’s breadth away. She held Triss’s eyes for a short while longer before nodding in assent. “As you wish.”

Attentively but surely, Philippa lifted her fingertips to the fabric concealing Triss’s wrapped up body. She leaned in, so close to the alcove of Triss’s neck where it smoothed into her collarbone and with every breath she took in, she smelled crisp linen and vanilla soap where they had cleansed and disinfected her wounds. Undoubtedly an aesthetic choice of Tissaia or Sabrina; Philippa questioned strongly whether any of the ragged soldiers or dimwitted healers had such refined products at their disposal.

Quickly, she pulled the shirt away from the bandages, undoing the top laces with her other hand. There was no point in delaying or prolonging the process; it was nothing to enjoy.

Triss winced, gritting her teeth.

As soon as Philippa caught a glimpse of the bandages, her hand stilled at the laces of Triss’s shirt. She flattened her tongue against the back of her teeth and assessed the damage silently and swiftly.

Just above the bandages the first discoloration of Triss’s skin was evident, growing deeper and more accented before getting lost under the gauzes. At the side of her throat, faintly scarred skin – it had fortunately healed better than the rest of her.

But on her shoulder, there were irritated, red scabs and battered skin, and further below the vast expanse concealed by the dressings, on the ridges of her ribs, more disfiguration, as if her flesh had been scratched raw and stripped down a few layers. In the freckled dip between her breasts, an unsightly scar stretched further beneath the bandages.

Apparently, her slowness to respond had already been plenty indication to Triss, whose eyes were shimmering red when Philippa dragged her gaze away from the injuries to find them. Ignoring the wetness hanging at Triss’s eyelashes, she softly pressed the tip of a finger at the rolled edge of a gauze, silently asking for permission to check further.

Triss bit at her lip and nodded, looking away.

It took a lot of finesse and quite a few hisses and whimpers of pain to peel back the damp strips of clothing, but after Philippa managed it, she almost wished she hadn’t.

Most of the exposed flesh had mended, but grooved, marred skin and the aftermath of swelled out blisters had remained. Her skin was flushed horribly, and the swell of her left breast was riddled with redness and thick welts. The area of her injuries resembled the scorched earth outside, as if the hill itself was engraved on her skin forever.

Philippa averted her eyes, opting to look at the mole on the top of Triss’s collarbone, solitary and slight compared to the wide span of her chest.

Fingers wrapped firmly around Philippa’s wrist, halting any further inspection.

Triss was crying now, hushed but all the more inconsolable. Philippa pulled away but did not introduce distance between them, instead placing her hands back where they had been on the bed.

It irked her, the sight of Triss sucking her cheeks in and narrowing her shoulders. The permanent scars on her body and the fragility in her whimpers irked her. So did the now yellowed apple lying neglected near them.

Most infuriating of all, however, was Philippa’s inability to turn a blind eye at the disconcerting sight as she had so effortlessly done with Tissaia. Instead, her lips squeezed into a thin line and she inched forward again, the proximity between them lessening so that Philippa could tally up the freckles littered across Triss’s flushed face if she wished to.

She wiped sternly at the moisture curving over Triss’s cheeks and exhaled, patiently waiting for Triss’s eyes to meet hers again. It would hurt to rebuke her now, but someone had to do it. Someone had to stop her from spiraling into this maelstrom of grief.

Yet when their eyes did meet, Philippa found she had no conceited wisdom to impart nor false consolations to provide. Instead, she stood motionless as Triss heaved another sob and bent forward, her head bowed next to hers, the side of her temple hovering near Philippa’s hair. Triss’s hitched breaths were whistling past her ear and her shirt drooped forward loosely.

Not quite touching, but close enough for a fresh wave of her tears to soak through the shoulder pad of Philippa’s doublet.

Philippa flexed her fingers into a soothing spell and sighed, pressing her cheek to Triss’s in lieu of the harsh reprimand she had been planning to issue.

…..

At a clearing high enough in altitude to oversee the Yaruga and smell fresh grassland rather than carrions and ash, Philippa stretched out her legs and loosened the ribbon off her hair. It was late in the night, a bit frosty for her sore bones, but the clean air rolled brilliantly into her lungs and she knew to appreciate the little things in life as much as the grand ones.

Such a wonderful place for such a solemn discussion.

Triss seemed to realize it, too. “Today you spoil me with your sympathy and attention, Philippa. Do not believe the drift of air or the scenery has distracted me from the fact.”

Philippa hummed, glancing over her shoulder minutely where Triss was leaning a hip against the bole of a tree before returning her gaze to the winding river below them. “Could it not be that I find your company agreeable, Triss, and seek it out for pleasure rather than business? Must I have an ulterior motive hidden under my sleeve to sit with you in amity?”

“You sound affronted by the suggestion,” Triss noted with an incredulous edge to her voice. “Could it be that you have forgotten our previous encounters?”

“Even after this,” Philippa narrowed her eyes, “you so unwisely remain embittered about Nimnar.”

Triss shuffled behind her. “Embittered? No. Cautious? Yes. In Oxenfurt-”

“What about Oxenfurt?” Philippa scoffed despite herself. She had herself committed long hours of thought to that day. Recently she had found herself at odds on whether it had been the right decision to reveal so much truth and so quickly to Triss after all.

Was it too far-fetched to imagine that perhaps Triss would not be standing on a blackened hill had Philippa opted to remain in the Academy instead of flying after her at Acorn Bay? Or that perhaps Triss might not have been clinging to her shawl so securely, tense and overwrought that the world may see the marks of pain branded on her chest?

It was a dangerous line of thought. Regrets were nothing Philippa made a habit of allowing into her mind. This was more Sabrina’s talk than hers. She discarded that trail of imagination instantly; it was indeed too far-fetched for her liking.

“Were you under the impression I followed you there?” She continued. “That perhaps I chased after you all the way from Redania to the Academy to lure you into a sly and coordinated game of politics? Don’t make me laugh.”

“You admitted to following me that very same night, Philippa.” The sound of light footsteps on soft ground and thread catching against grass alerted Philippa to Triss’s movements.

“Not to the Academy. I followed you to Acorn Bay because I sought to disabuse you of the notion that I am the worst of your concerns. Evidently, the message has yet to go through.”

Triss was standing over her now, arms cradling her chest and hair pulled back to avoid contact with the wound on her throat. She looked sort of beautiful like this, a keen silhouette against the backdrop of the infinite night-sky and its dazzling stars, but the illusion only lasted until a sliver of moonlight shone over them and cascaded on her eyes. Then she seemed more broken than picturesque.

Like shattered stained-glass.

Triss did not say anything for a while – only stared out towards the landscape in front of them with pursed lips and a forlorn gaze.

“So odd…” she said quietly, “that you stayed behind so long, taking up a role which is not yours.”

Philippa felt her eyes harden but she willed them vacant again. What chip did this girl carry on her shoulder? What had Tissaia taught her? Magic and politics or the worthless art of hyperbolic sentimentality?

“It is only odd because you paint it so in fictions of your own making,” Philippa cautioned strongly. “You are a mage, a colleague who fought valiantly in a war where many other colleagues died. It is both our duty and wish that no more mages perish so far from their home. It matters not that it is me who has stayed behind and you who has survived. The roles remain constant whereas we are the variables. You would do well to remember that Triss.”

Triss’s flummoxed huff formed a tendril of vapor in the cold in front of her.

“All my life,” Triss exhaled, and shook her head as if in disbelief, “I have been instructed to dedicate my devotions and respects to the Brotherhood which so graciously granted me shelter and education. Whatever loyalty I sought to devote to the King I served was to be shared with them, and whatever faith I had ought to be wholeheartedly deposited in their wisdom and ambition. The home that they provided me with, I should never disregard.” She wetted her lips and frowned, as if searching for the right words.

“But it is a shallow and dreary home. It has been no more welcoming to me than a sheepcote is to a ravenous wolf at night. A home only in name, and nothing more; something which I can never truly have. There is no warmth or refuge to be found amongst my brethren. Only embraces which all-too-quickly turn to chokeholds… and dreadful affirmations of my substitutability.”

Triss sported a sour smile on her face. Philippa remained silent.

“And so it is, why should I complain? After all, you are correct, my name is up there on the obelisk with the rest of them. I did not shun my kin’s ways when I fought side by side with them, so what gives me the right to do so now? Nothing.” She mused, voice tremulous. “But I do not wish to pretend anymore, Philippa. Why would I listen to any message you to pass on, when I know very well that it’s only subterfuge; a well-hidden alert in the livery of reassurances?

"We are so skilled at that, us sorceresses, disguising truths and threats with sophisticated jargon and suggestive expressions. It has become such a mundane task. Hypothesizing instead of making demands, drinking and conducting small-talk instead of addressing broken bonds…” she bit at her lip and shook her head again before turning to Philippa.

In her eyes sparkled patently countless distinct motifs of dotted lights, and the white around her irises was almost translucent under the moonbeams. So still her figure was and burning with passion as she spoke, that Triss could have easily been mistaken for a celestial body herself.

“… Or scouting out clearings with soothing breezes and breathtaking views instead of plainly saying what there is to be said,” she stared at Philippa pointedly. “No, I will not pretend to believe that you only seek out my company because it is pleasant. I will not pretend to not know that the wonderful clear waters underneath us and the humbling landscape around us all serve to distract me from what you’ve no doubt been planning to mask with gratuitous verbal ornamentation. I shall relieve you of this tedious task, Philippa, because I no longer wish to pretend. I already know why you have brought me here tonight.”

The older sorceress held Triss’s eyes with as much intensity. “So observant and intelligent you are. Do not leave me in suspense, then, Triss. Why have I brought you here?”

“Because,” Triss’s brow crinkled and her lips twitched, “… because you are leaving.”

Philippa tilted her chin upwards and allowed her gaze to linger on Triss’s bottom lip as it quivered faintly, her hands as they tightened and bunched up the edges of her shawl. It was useless to deny it, and Philippa had no intention to do so. From Triss’s mouth the statement sounded suspiciously like an accusation, but it was accurate all the same.

“Yes, I am.” She stated, and Triss exhaled sharply then, as if Philippa’s confirmation made it more real and concrete than it had been in her mind. As if she had hoped differently.

“I understand,” replied Triss after a while, voice hushed. “The role has been fulfilled and a new play must commence.”

In the depths and concealed by the mass of trees, hermit thrushes were singing melancholic tunes and owls were calling back to their young in the void. The river burbled over pebble and stone and white silver reflected over its surface, ripples perpetually in motion yet painting a perfectly coherent image – a sight to behold.

But Triss was not looking at the heavenly scene in front of her. Her eyes were locked on Philippa and only her, suspended in the moment and seemingly perusing the minutiae of her profile.

She found their weight was not insignificant.

“I will tell you something now, to ponder on later,” Philippa eventually disturbed the dense silence between them. “Without verbal ornamentation and superfluous eloquence, because despite your beliefs, I respect your wishes. Plainly then, and sincerely, I will tell you that life carries on and in turn, so must you. In the grand scheme of things, your victory on this hill will count for very little if you cannot bear its marks and overcome its pain. No amount of comfort or kinship will be of use in that effort; only you can settle that matter within yourself.” Philippa spoke softly but surely, the truth sharper with every cloud of steam unfurling from her mouth in the cold.

“And neither I nor anyone else can offer you the warmth you so desperately pursue, Triss,” she murmured. She tipped her head back and her eyelids slid closed. The cool air grazed the skin of her neck delightfully. “Only soothing breezes and breathtaking views, so that your suffering may ease.”

“I do not want them,” Triss protested and Philippa opened her eyes to stare at her through lowered eyelids.

The thrushes started on another lament. Below them, a fish leaped up high and briefly flipped over the waters, light glistening on its gills before it dropped back into the sweeping current. Leaves waltzed with the gentle wind and at their pace, a distinct, earthly and heady scent journeyed over to where Philippa lay.

Such a wonderful place for such a solemn discussion.

“And what is it exactly that you want, Triss?”

Had someone been near them, in the forest, they would have heard the crickets and the barred owls. The mockingbirds and the common nightingales pattering and tittering over their twigs and safe in the cover of the thickets. The rhythmic melody of the river as it flowed resolutely towards its destiny, a ribbon of blue with crescents of silver moonlight.

Had someone been there, they would have surely been enraptured by their surroundings; the sounds of a dark night in the forest ringing loudly in their ears.

But no one was there, and between them nothing was louder than Triss’s desolate eyes and bobbing throat, the fidgeting of her fingers and tremble of her lips. Nothing was louder than her shallow inhalation as she twisted and lowered her head away from Philippa’s scrutiny and towards the horizon.

Nothing was louder than the silence in the wake of her subsequent admission.

“Something,” she whispered, “which I can never truly have.” And because she no longer wished to pretend, her hand slowly rose to wipe at the wetness on her cheek, unhidden.

And because Philippa respected her wishes, she too did not pretend, and sought out no needless elaborations.

……

“Listen here,” the short, stocky dwarf produced a repulsive, unearthly sound from his throat not too dissimilar to cats coughing up furballs, and spat out on the ground next to him with no care for modesty or courtesy. “’Tis impossible to accommodate the gal in our company. We leave tomorrow and the lass cannot even travel on foot yet, Lady Alhard.”

“Eilhart.” She halfheartedly corrected too preoccupied with the healer at her side, who had been ordered to remain at Sodden, nodding his head reluctantly as to confirm the dwarf’s assertion.

“Yes that. As you can yourself see, there’s hardly any space on the horses and the two carts are reserved for the pregnant maidens,” the dwarf shrugged and clapped his hands.

Philippa narrowed her eyes at the group of travelers and observed the lack of any pregnant women in sight, but knew better than to point it out to a man with temperament more delicate than a dandelion puff. “Reckon if she awaits a bit longer she may find another expedition to join. Maybe my cousin Zoltan will drop by in a fortnight or so. He’s always been a charitable lad that one…”

Philippa crossed an arm at her chest and lifted the other to knead at her forehead, before abruptly whirling around without a word and stalking away from the band of dwarves altogether. The healer scrambled after her. 

“Bloody witches…” Yornan the dwarf muttered under his breath and spat again.

……

Yornan slammed a closed fist on the wooden table so hard that Pissy, the orphan they had picked up on the road to Carreras and appropriately named after his unconquerable incontinence, saw his spoon bounce out of the bowl of chowder in front of him and onto the floor. No matter. He would drink from the pitch like a dog if he had to. Good food was scarce nowadays.

“For the last time, I’m telling you muggins, ‘twas not fourteen magicians who died in Sodden,” he yelled, foam and broth trickling down his beard. “’Twas less!”

“Yer talking shite Yornan. I was there at Sodden Hill when they lifted the obelisk and dug the graves! The formal report named fourteen dead,” a dwarf named Sheldon Skaggs exclaimed loudly. His chest was puffed up in superciliousness.

Pissy slowly raised the bowl to his mouth but before he could take a healthy mouthful of milk and onions, Yornan smacked the table again and the liquid spilled all over his already filthy shirt. The boy hid his scowl behind the earthenware.

“Tomfool! You’ve been duped! One of them is not in the dirt!”

“Lies!” More shouts and din erupted. Pissy looked mournfully at his spoilt meal.

“Shut up!” Yornan roared again and commanded silence. “What I speak of is naught but the truth! They tried to haggle one of the wounded’s way onto our wagon. The subject of the bargain was a witch, I am sure of it.”

“Since when are ye a connoisseur of sorceresses, Yornan?”

“It doesn’t take a specialist, Sheldon, only a little logic and perceptiveness of certain facts!” Yornan aggressively pointed a flimsy, bitten through chicken leg at the dwarves on the other table. “Namely, the fact that the jewel of the Redanian court herself did the haggling! Who else would that wicked wench bargain for other than her own kind?”

“Bah! Yornan,” another thickset dwarf chortled and slapped the backside of a passing servant. The girl cursed at him indignantly before scurrying away. “If you bartered with the sorceress Philippa Eilhart then the ass I just slapped belongs to the beloved prophet Marjoram!” More laughter and shouts followed.

Yornan, red as the vermilion of the innkeeper’s painted sign outside, waved a dismissive hand, and with it flaps of chicken flesh scattered across the table. Pissy tried in vain to catch some with his eager mouth.

“Fools, all of you!” He cried again. “You will see. You will see that I am right in a few months from now when they reveal their mistake.”

“We will see, we will see!” More scoffs and wheezes of laughter.

It was only Pissy who heard the following grumbles from Yornan, who bitterly grieved under his breath that he had squandered the opportunity to bring the maimed woman along and prove his point, and had instead left the two sorceresses to their own fate as they set off together on horseback towards the West the day after.

Had it been anyone else, they might have attempted to dig deeper, to make use of information so valuable. But what did Pissy, a young and orphan boy, care for information? He was tired and his stomach ached from hunger and neglect at the sight of his own spattered chowder and Yornan’s unhurried munching.

Information was not chicken.

…...

For long, long days, they did not exchange a word on the road.

Horse hooves over crunched leaves fallen on the path and birds chirping within foliages and twigs were the only sounds accompanying them.

Philippa did not mind the silence; rather she was appreciative of the calmness, though it was most certainly not comfortable. It was an eerie calm – a heavy and intangible understanding settled resolutely and irreversibly in the negative space between them.

Triss’s eyes were mostly downcast and her shoulders were sagged, but Philippa cared very little for her brooding. She only kept a keen eye out for the hue of Triss’s skin; if it were paling, it was a clear sign that they needed to stop, rest and alleviate her pain. If it was overly flushed, then that too meant they had to get off the saddles and set camp, because she easily tired and Philippa was weary of pushing their good fortune.

On one occasion, Philippa shifted on her horse to notice that Triss’s cheeks were neither flushed nor pale, but covered in gravel and dust from the dirt tracks. When she reached up to tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear, Philippa caught dirt under her own fingernails, she grimaced in disgust. They had to bathe, and soon.

By a stroke of luck or divine intervention (which Philippa seriously doubted), a few turns later there had been a slope off the side of the path, leading to a thicket of trees and vegetation too green and lush not to be sustained by flowing water nearby.

It was with relief that Philippa realized they had probably stumbled upon a small and narrow anabranch of the river Ina, and with a few protective spells and attentive ears, they could probably wash in it safely.

Triss must have noticed her intense staring into the direction of the small grove during one of the short moments when she wasn’t glaring holes into her horse’s mane, because she did not make a single sound of protest when Philippa whistled at her horse, pulled the reins and nudged the stirrups, leading it straight into the undergrowth.

…..

_I’m going to need your help._

Philippa paused her efforts of warming the pouch she had filled in the stream to purify it into drinking water, pushing up from her knees and unfastening the laces of her shirt at the top of her neck as an afterthought. These were the first words Triss had uttered her way in almost a week. And they weren’t even actually spoken out loud.

Despite the fact, Philippa shrugged the jerkin off her body and abandoned it next to the pile of dry twigs, near the horses. She left the half-heated pouch and picked up a waterskin with fresh water in it.

She carefully stepped over slippery stones and overgrown grass, towards the fallen and converging branches of trees bent askance over time. The spiderweb of offshoots and outgrowth formed a thick wall of greenery that Philippa had to duck under and push away with force so as to reach further.

When she did, an imperceptible sigh inadvertently left her lips.

In front of her, a narrow but low ravine snaked its way downstream, with moss and ivy on its two banks and the quaint sunlight filtering beautifully threw the shades of the taller trees. The water was crystal clear; from the protruding rocks and the soft mud of the slop on the other side of the river, she could tell it was neither too shallow nor too deep.

The crackling noise of the current happily flowing over pebbles and branches was a blessing to Philippa, whose ears had nearly grown numb from the monotone and arrhythmic sound of horse shoes stumping on dirt for the past few days. Somewhere above her, a white-breasted nuthatch twittered a greeting and another, much further away, returned the sentiment passionately. The tunes echoed pleasantly amongst the tree trunks and leaves.

Philippa’s senses soon attuned to something entirely more pleasant, however, and she had to subdue the shallowness of her next inhalation when Triss, looking for all intents and purposes not unlike an aquatic nymph who had grown into the landscape just as naturally as the mounds of sphagnum moss by the edges of the water, twisted in the middle of the stream to stare at her apprehensively.

Her hands were bunching up the fabric of her cerulean gown at the waistline, hem lifted high so that it would not soak in the water. Her hair was flowing freely around her head, and the tops of her shoulders where the dress had slipped off were riddled with bokeh of sunlight.

“Did I disturb you?” Triss asked softly.

Philippa quirked a shapely eyebrow before pursing her lips. She gripped tightly at the waterskin and raised it to her lips, quickly gulping down some of the content before throwing her head back to pour the cool water over her face and the column of her neck. She screwed her eyes shut against it before tossing it to her feet and running a hand over her face.

She hummed, content. The drops of water had trickled down the front of her shirt, at her chest, and the sudden chill soothed her. The temperature of her skin had spiked uncomfortably high.

When she opened her eyes again, quickly reaching behind to tie her hair up in a knot with a ribbon, she pretended not to see Triss’s gaze slowly travel down the dripping valley of her collarbone, where Philippa’s shirt was open and loose.

“Hardly,” Philippa mused, taking a few steps forward before reaching the edge of the water. “What is it you needed my assistance with?”

Triss tilted her head before looking down at herself. “I cannot remove the taped gauzes.”

“You probably shouldn’t.”

The other woman frowned. “I can’t have them soak through.”

Philippa spent a moment thinking through that, before nodding. “Alright,” she started. “I can prevent that from happening, but you need to lose the dress.”

In the short seconds that followed, Triss’s full lips jerked, once, twice, and her eyes fleeted between Philippa’s and the trees over her shoulder. Philippa shifted her weight from one foot to the other patiently.

Though under normal circumstances she would never understand prudish and bashful sorceresses – the concepts just did not belong in the same sentence, really – right then she understood that Triss was probably not feeling her best and she had already been vocal about her general distrust of Philippa’s intentions.

She cleared her throat and looked out towards far end of the stream. “If you wish, I will close my eyes; but only if you deem it is absolutely necessary,” Philippa offered. “I don’t take too well to being deprived of my senses.”

She glanced back at Triss, who was now staring at her closely.

“No,” she murmured gently. “No that will not be necessary.”

Then, with a flourish of her fingers and closed eyelids in concentration, she muttered a spell and the fabric dissipated, leaving behind exposed flesh and velvety planes of skin. Philippa kept her eyes purposefully fixed on Triss’s face. Nakedness had never fazed her, even if it glistened ethereally in sunlight and dampness and reflected tantalizingly off the clear water.

Triss, to her credit, neither spoke nor signaled that she had been outraged by Philippa’s indifferent gaze. She only stared back, one hand threading through the water reaching the middle of her thighs and another carding absently through her tresses.

Without another minute’s delay, Philippa mirrored the motion and suddenly her clothes were dispersing, too. That, apparently, was something Triss had not been mentally prepared for, because as soon as Philippa had felt the goosebumps on her naked skin, the younger woman’s eyes snapped to the far right of the ravine, throat bobbing awkwardly and hand falling limply from her hair.

Philippa controlled her smirk and moved forward, sighing at the contact of her toes with the cold ripples of the water. The sensation was divine.

“I can’t recall the last time I did this,” she pondered, and then took a few lazy strides to reduce the distance between them. The sand and mud beneath her feet was soft and eelgrass was tickling her ankles.

Triss was visibly struggling to hold the steady gaze. “I cannot imagine something like this is easily forgotten,” she pursed her lips.

Philippa hummed and cupped her hands in the water, raising them to her collarbone and letting the reserve cascade down her stomach and her arms, rinsing off the dirt. “I suppose it just wasn’t as memorable then.”

“As what?” Triss blinked.

“As this.” Philippa stated, tilted her head, and finally let her eyes meander unhurriedly over Triss’s form.

From the stretch of her neck, to the mole over her clavicles, the sleekness of her collarbone and the supple flesh underneath – a part bandaged and hidden, but the other silky and soft on the eyes. The faint ridges of her ribs and the dip of her abdomen as it fanned out to two defined hipbones joining at the apex of her thighs.

There was water dribbling down that smoothness and Philippa steadily lifted her eyes back up to Triss’s freckles, for fear that any further meandering would tempt visions not easily cast-off from one’s imagination.

The blush that burst and bloomed across Triss’s chest was almost as lovely as the skin that it flushed, and Philippa smiled both earnestly and mischievously, watching in unabated fascination as Triss’s initially perplexed expression morphed into one of heated realization and then plain incredulity within a matter of seconds.

“You are something else,” Triss huffed, shaking her head in disbelief.

“So I’ve been told.”

Triss apparently opted not to dignify that with a response. Instead, she bent at the knees to submerge herself further in the water, which was now sloshing just above her belly button.

With refined endurance and the continuously cultivated skills of at least two centuries, Philippa managed to not be thrown off axis by the new perspective she had on Triss as the woman stared up at her.

“Come,” Philippa eventually said after a moment of peacefulness, also lowering herself to Triss’s level. “Let me help with the gauze.”

Below water, Philippa felt the ground sink and shift beneath her as Triss inched forward, until her arms were wading through water back and forth, back and forth, rhythmically and languidly just outside each of Philippa’s elbows. Philippa leaned in to better examine the material.

The tops of the scars she could see had already started healing a little more – paler instead of the horrid and irritated red they had been some time ago, and the scars on her ribs resembled more a washed-out map of land than they did seared ground. There was still a long way to go for the wounds below the bandages, but the progress was heartening.

Philippa urged her mind into serenity and then whispered an incantation, gently but with precise pronunciation and unambiguous intention.

It was practical to do this when surrounded by an abundance of water, since she could draw power from it in copious amounts. Seconds later, she felt the force flow through her and with tightened lips she released an exhalation.

“That should work,” she murmured, and then dipped her palm in the water, before bringing it up to Triss’s half-covered chest. “Let me know if it hurts.”

Softly but persistently, she pressed her fingers against the bandage, and surveyed Triss’s nervous eyes as they settled on her hand. Her skin was warm below the fabric and from what she could tell, the dampness had not soaked through.

She thought to test the spell further, but Philippa increased the pressure only marginally before something strangled and unbidden tumbled out of Triss’s throat and her fingers shot up to wrap around Philippa’s wrist.

It was not a sign of pain.

The quietness deepened and held steadfastly against the sound of rippling water and fluttering wings. Philippa felt as if it were slowly wearing away all the rough edges between them, if such a rare and profound process could ever possibly be perceived. It roiled as molten understanding within Triss’s brilliant eyes and took on the smell of fresh air as Philippa breathed in.

Triss wet her lips before slowly lowering herself further into the water, eyes not leaving Philippa’s until they vanished underneath the surface. Her fingers were still hanging over Philippa’s wrist on her chest, now pulled in the water, neither pushing away nor pressing closer.

She was beneath only briefly. She propelled upwards again and this time her hands went upwards, smoothing down her hair as water dripped over the tilt of her face down the curve of her breasts and further below, lost in the torrents.

Philippa effortlessly willed her hand away and closer to her own body rather than the one currently basking in the luxuries of nature. But dragging her gaze away was an altogether separate feat to accomplish. Triss truly did look like a wounded naiad in her natural habitat, not dissimilar or lacking in splendor compared to paintings displayed all over the Continent’s most renowned galleries.

When she refocused her eyes on Triss’s, there was candid fondness and mirth burrowing there. The display was infinitely more preferable than the despondent looks Triss had been sporting ever since they left Sodden.

“Enjoying the view?” asked Triss, voice lilted.

“Immeasurably,” Philippa affirmed. “Yourself?”

“I more enjoy the company,” Triss quipped and bit her lip. Philippa only smirked. She had seen Triss’s eyes wander downwards appreciatively more than once in the last half hour. Eyes had always been more truthful than the words. “We should bathe quickly, before we freeze to death. I did not live through war to die of hypothermia.”

Philippa hummed contemplatively, and before Triss could turn away, fingers threading through water like silk or warm butter, she grasped intently at her elbow, pulling her close.

The ease with which Triss yielded and was rendered pliant in her hold would have been nothing short of intoxicating to anyone; but Philippa Eilhart was not just anyone.

She motioned for Triss to turn and ignored the hitch in Triss’s breath, or how comfortably Triss’s back could have slotted against Philippa’s front, very nearly touching but not so. Instead, she wormed her fingers into Triss’s scalp and repeated a soothing, round motion, until magic foam had appeared in Triss’s hair and the other woman sighed merrily.

Philippa ran the pads of her fingers through the small tangles in Triss’s curls, and after she was satisfied with the result, she proceeded to carefully lather her own body up, then Triss’s shoulders. The soap smelled of vanilla and nutmeg.

Triss chuckled; a throaty, unpretentious roll of laughter. “Verily, a masterful illusion.” Philippa noticed that Triss’s own hands had started moving, repeating the simple spell and washing her front. She dutifully averted her eyes back to her own fingers.

“I figured you may appreciate such a detail.”

“Hmm,” Triss tipped her head further back towards Philippa’s ministrations. “How did you know?”

“No need to be coy, Triss,” Philippa gathered Triss’s hair and gently wringed them through, watching the foam fall and float away on the water like plume feathers. Triss’s palm was gliding over her ribs, and Philippa saw her pause only minutely over the scars she no doubt met there. “Myself and probably everyone else within a mile can surmise you douse yourself in the perfume.”

“Touché.”

Philippa said nothing. It seemed impossible, but the more she washed Triss’s back the more freckles popped out, tiny and proud. Philippa ran a knuckle over one at the top of Triss’s spine and raised an amused brow as the little hair there stood up, alert and shivering.

“Are you cold yet?” She asked, though she was very well aware that had not been the reason behind the gooseflesh.

Nevertheless, Triss held her own. “A little. Let me rinse.” She dipped into the water again, but for longer this time, no doubt explained by washing motions down below her navel. Philippa elected not to stare. When she came back up, she was breathing a bit more laboriously and somewhere in the process, she had turned to face Philippa once more.

“Better?”

“Yes, thank you,” Triss smiled. Dewdrops were hanging on her eyelashes for dear life. Next time they fluttered close, the water disappeared. “You smell like me.”

“Mm,” Philippa nodded, then submerged her collarbone to chase away the remnants of soap. “Does that bother you?”

Triss’s mouth twitched. Her eyes shifted towards the tops of Philippa’s breasts and the slope of her shoulder. Then Philippa’s lips, and then her eyes.

“No,” she murmured eventually. “I’m more concerned that the thought may be addictive.”

……

Philippa handed her the apple in silence. She had discovered another just before they left Sodden, and safely tucked it away for an occasion such as this one. They had been traveling nonstop for a few days now, and Triss’s eyes were clouded over in poorly veiled exhaustion and pain when Philippa finally ordered her to leave the saddle and set camp.

“Where does it hurt?”

“Everywhere,” Triss muttered, before taking the offering and lying back down on the spread underneath. She huffed, and when Philippa twisted to look at her, there was some playfulness shining through the gloom of her irises.

Lately, attempting to decipher Triss's true emotions was closely resembling an arduous and long religious process. “I’m fairly certain I once read a very titillating story about the serpent handing a pure and fair maiden such an apple…”

“I have been called many things in my life,” Philippa mused, unaffected by the remark, “but a serpent is not one of them. My respects for the inventiveness.”

“Oh Philippa,” Triss threw her head back in faux exasperation. Everything else in her stance betrayed her pain and anxiety. “I could not have likened you to the serpent in this story because that presupposes I am the pure and fair maiden… one is no more or less true than the other.”

Philippa threw another stem into the fire. “Sleep, Triss. Soon we must reach Brugge.”

It was a bit cold out and the surroundings unfriendly, but they had bested worse conditions when crossing the Chotla. Still, Philippa anticipated the tug at the hem of her shirt. She looked over her shoulder at the crease of Triss’s brow and in her mind could almost sense the throbbing pain on her chest.

Triss bit into the apple and some of the juice dripped down her chin. Philippa steeled herself to not think about that.

“I now supposedly have all the knowledge of everything that is good and evil,” Triss spoke and somehow managed dignity while chewing. “That is what the tale dictates.”

“Splendidly,” Philippa retorted, deadpan.

“And yet,” Triss overlooked the remark, staring instead into the incisions on the apple, the bite mark where her lipstick had smeared on the apple’s skin, “I still cannot for the life of me figure out if our crossing paths is one of the best, or the worst things that have ever happened to me.”

Philippa stared at her intensely. She stared into Triss’s eyes when they found hers until they grew lustrous and shiny, until the façade of liveliness and worthless philosophy cracked and fell away, and all that remained was the bare raw matter of Triss Merigold, seeming to anyone anguished, disarmingly honest and brutally sore on the eyes.

But Philippa Eilhart was not just anyone.

“Only time will tell,” she stated, and reached out to wipe at the wetness below Triss’s eyelid lest any tears hit the ground running.

…...


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Philippa shifted under the bedsheets and after a few moments lazily cracked a hazy eye open. “Too early,” she grunted.
> 
> “I’m sorry,” Triss murmured.
> 
> “Liar.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it is that time.

**Parenthesis IV:  
The Wicked**

_“I dream your face in my mind’s eye,_

_A sorry trick, a vapid lie,_

_To fill the void of your goodbye,_

_Why?”_

**_\- ‘Romance and Tragedy’, P. 46, Popular Northern Stanzas  
_ ** **(c. 1179)**

……

On the velvet seat by his floor-length window, Vilgefortz shifted and rested the rim of his goblet on his lips thoughtfully, watching closely as Fercart of Cidaris paced the length of the parlor anxiously.

“… and Yennefer of Vengerberg, no one has the slightest idea what happened to her, but no doubt about it, they will be singing her praises after the demonstration at Sodden.”

Vilgefortz hummed. That was not such a problem in itself. Yennefer, the inconvenient arsehole, as she had so fittingly put it herself, had next to no political ambitions for the Brotherhood. She did, however, have a regrettably multifaceted and impenetrable bond with Tissaia de Vries, who was an Archmage and member of the Chapter. That much became painstakingly clear during the battle.

Fercart shook his head at the wall. “Even Sabrina Glevissig was defending her! Oh the irony…”

“Calm down, Fercart,” Vilgefortz said, and pointed to the seat perpendicular to his own. “Drink some wine, have some grapes, and ease your nerves. Everything is as it should be.”

“Leave your hollow reassurances for your little pets, Vilgefortz,” Fercart spat and stared at the sofa almost as if it had personally offended his entire genealogical tree. “Yennefer of Vengerberg is about to be pronounced a hero, Tissaia de Vries is launching inquiries into the Brotherhood’s motives, and Philippa Eilhart has been burrowing her nose where it decidedly does not belong.”

Vilgefortz’s brow bounced only slightly. His eyes fixated on the nervous tapping of Fercart’s foot and the way his lips curled into a hideous sneer.

“Please care to elaborate on the latter part,” he commanded, with a low and tranquil tone which nonetheless left no room for argument.

He was far from a man easily intimidated, but it would be unwise to ignore a potential threat posed to his schemes in the form of Philippa Eilhart. That woman was a political force to be reckoned with, if only because of the indisputable fact that once she chose to sink her teeth into a matter, she would not let go until it was either resolved or ripped to shreds.

Fercart spun to look at him for a moment before sighing deeply and plopping down on the very seat he had earlier rejected. He tugged at a grape from its stem and hastily popped it into his mouth.

“Philippa Eilhart became increasingly more irksome during the first few days of the Sodden recovery plan. She made a multitude of intricate queries, and led a lot of the political discussions with the Kings,” he explained, rubbing the pads of his forefinger and thumb before leaning forward to steal away another grape.

Vilgefortz sipped his wine and thought to remind Lydia to restock on the muscadines. Fercart was not the only guest he would have to entertain. From the looks of things, sooner or later, many polite invitations and generous courtesies would have to be extended to a number of people in this very living room.

“Does that surprise you Fercart?” He asked. “It would be more concerning if such pressure had not been exerted. It is Philippa we are discussing; the woman who decrees King Vizimir himself.”

Fercart glared at Vilgefortz curtly before resuming his report.

“Allow me to proceed without further interruption, if you will, and you may find my words extremely fruitful, or perhaps even instructive, for a change,” he stated, a caustic undertone in his voice that Vilgefortz might have felt inclined to discipline on any other day. Instead, he nodded his assent.

“Not only did that brat become progressively restless in her efforts to piece together the exact order of events at Sodden, but she was also very impassioned about finding every last dead mage on the hill; whether whole or… otherwise. In the sphere of those extensive efforts, she ordered the carrying out of several autopsies by the healers. That was before the obelisk was erected, and before we found out that you had somehow managed to cross the battlefield with none other than Triss Merigold, who had been presumed dead up to that point.”

Fercart paused and stared intently at Vilgefortz. “A nice and inspired touch to come to her aid, if a little miscalculated, considering that you were not there to greet Tissaia, Artaud, or Sabrina when they rushed to the encampment – a fact, which, as you no doubt can imagine, an attentive woman such as Philippa Eilhart did not fail to pick up on.”

Vilgefortz pursed his lips, but opted for temporary silence.

“I can discern from your face that you maintain this was not a miscalculation on your part, as all great wizards do,” Fercart offered, but then smiled nastily and bitterly, “… especially because you had conducted impeccable and extensive research before the emergency conclave and established that, among others, Triss Merigold was hardly of any import to you in the grand scheme of things. I assume that this was one of the factors that contributed in your determining that saving her at the Hill was nearly inconsequential to you; after all, who cares for little Merigold when the much greater issue of Yennefer of Vengerberg remains unresolved?” Fercart huffed, then ate another grape.

“You underestimated the unpredictable power of everchanging circumstances, Vilgefortz. A variable which one cannot simply dismiss. Had you bothered to deign me with more than a rough and vague sketch of your plans at Sodden in Gors Velen, or forewarned me as to whom you consider disposable and whom not, I could have warned you that King Foltest of Temeria values Triss Merigold’s council not merely because she was appointed to him by Tissaia de Vries’s intervention, but because she evidently aided him with a very personal matter many years ago,” he took a breath, poured himself some of the old Cidaris wine, and continued.

“I could have warned you that because of this simple truth, Triss Merigold has been repeatedly assigned to handle several delicate matters, often involving diplomacy and ostentatious navigation of lavish banquets.”

Vilgefortz traced the rim of his goblet in thought. He inhaled the scent of tannins deeply, and stared out the window again, already able to deduce where the conversation was headed.

Still, he waited.

“In several of these luxurious expeditions, little, unimportant Triss Merigold, socialized and cavorted with a variety of much more momentous personages, such as King Esterad Thyssen, Master Dorregaray…” Fercart hummed, then took a sip of his wine, “… or, amongst others, Philippa Eilhart, the woman who decrees King Vizimir himself,” he directed his condescending gaze towards Vilgefortz again.

“Had you been aware of those facts, Vilgefortz, the circumstances would have been much more obvious to you. It would have become apparent that leaving her to die or staying by her side at the camp would have been two options much more beneficial to you than simply saving and then abandoning her on that cot without supervision.

"Because for one reason or another, Philippa Eilhart has built sufficient rapport with Triss Merigold to be able to extract fragmented yet invaluable information concerning your whereabouts in the woods, which in turn allowed her to cross-examine the autopsy results and draw several conclusions on your actions – the content of which I am unaware of. Though luckily these conclusions were not shared with anyone, as is a customary practice with that hag, the volatility of everchanging circumstances worked its magic once again.”

Fercart coughed, scoffed and shook his head.

“Little Merigold, unbeknownst to herself, in her delirious stupor revealed during her treatment some of that very same information to Sabrina Glevissig, who had recently taken charge of her wounds and fostered superfluous yet surprisingly intense sympathy for the fallen of Sodden Hill.

"Whatever discretion Philippa Eilhart had maintained surrounding her findings, Sabrina Glevissig discarded within moments. I am sure that during your thorough research into the Northern mages, you became aware of what a loudmouth that wench is. She did not hesitate to make her displeasure known to Tissaia just before the Rectoress left for Aretuza, despite the fact that many others were present during her tirade – which is of course how I came to know about this miscalculation. And though I cannot be certain of any further actions on Tissaia’s part, you can drink your wine and eat your grapes in unrest, assured that Tissaia de Vries has no doubt grown somewhat suspicious of your elusive activities during the battle in Sodden.”

Fercart stopped talking and also looked out the window, where rain was trickling down and humidity fogged up the glass pane. From the pensive expression he bore, it was not hard to infer that his invective was far from over.

“As a show of good will, I am now going to alert you of specific circumstances that are further developing as a result of your minor error in Sodden. In the hopes that next time you plan ahead for something, you will not leave in the dark allies who may be able to guide you away from unsubstantiated assumptions,” Fercart derided, tightening his palm around the armrest.

Vilgefortz tolerated the insolent behaviour. If Fercart did indeed know of something significant, it was better to acquire that intelligence before reprimanding him.

“I am listening,” Vilgefortz prodded.

“Good. Listen carefully. Keira Metz, who did not participate in the battle, recently demanded that I return immediately to Court as she is – and I quote – exhausted from dealing with Willemer’s pious preaching and Foltest’s panicked rants all by herself. Furthermore, several inquiries and requests for clarifications from the Chapter have been delivered to her laboratory. All of the above caution us of two things : firstly and most importantly, tensions are hiking and trouble is stirring in the Brotherhood. Whether it is Tissaia’s doing or has direct consequences for you is yet to be decided… you were after all, the leader on Sodden Hill. Such title is not to be taken lightly.” Fercart bowed his head in mock-acknowledgement. Vilgefortz retained his cool.

“Less importantly but more interestingly, Triss Merigold has evidently not yet returned to Temeria. In and of itself, that matters very little, but combined with the fact that Philippa Eilhart chose not to depart with King Vizimir’s cohort and still lingered in the camps when I last saw her as I was preparing to leave myself, it is enough cause for alarm. As insignificant as the young one is, a distrustful Philippa with any ally on her side constitutes a notable hurdle to any plans you may have,” Fercart scratched at his neck before clearing his throat purposefully.

“I can guarantee, Vilgefortz, that in such circumstances, options will really tighten up for you. As not only does Philippa exert almost as much influence as you do on the Brotherhood, but little Merigold is also, unfortunately, close to both Tissaia de Vries and Yennefer of Vengerberg. In turn, these two have long preserved solid ties with Margarita Laux-Antille, who is to become Aretuza’s new Rectoress, as you have indubitably already heard of.

"From what I can gather, Merigold is also very friendly with Metz, who is prone to brash decisions and violent outbursts even when unprompted – so visualize how much more daring she could get if she knew her temper would be justified,” Fercart spat and shuddered at the thought.

For someone so young, he surely spoke and acted as if he were as ancient and knowledgeable as Hen Gedymdeith.

“Suddenly, you’re not looking at just a small miscalculation, but an entire legion of self-righteous and radical sorceresses marching against you, including yet not limited to: the most spiteful bitch in the Continent, a conceited Archmage and a full-fledged Redanian sovereign in all but name.”

 _You ignoramus,_ Vilgefortz thought, but said nothing. Fercart might have thought he was familiar with the Brotherhood’s dynamics, but he could not have missed the mark any more if he tried.

Vilgefortz had indeed carried out thorough research before the conclave, and uncovered all the nuances in the relations between the northern sorceresses one by one, overturning every stone and pebble to gather the information he needed.

Fercart, despite being seated in the Council, had no clue as to the fact that Philippa Eilhart and Yennefer of Vengerberg would never see eye to eye on matters of refined politics because of the fundamental disparities between them.

He did not know that Tissaia de Vries had a strained and intricate relationship with both women, and he did not realize that Margarita Laux-Antille cared very little to interfere in their business, much less join a radical anti-regime group full of rogue sorceresses.

But Vilgefortz, always thinking two steps ahead, said nothing. Despite his largely misguided warnings, Fercart had been correct in at least one regard : Vilgefortz had not been privy to Triss Merigold’s affinity with Philippa Eilhart.

It was a development to keep track of, and he required Fercart to do just that.

There was a knock on wood before Lydia’s face timidly poked through the gap of the door.

 _I apologize for the intrusion, but Rience has asked for your audience,_ she communicated.

Fercart, who had tuned into the waves, grimaced and downed his drink in one go.

“Then that is my cue to bid you goodnight and farewell, Vilgefortz. After all, I believe I have made the circumstances perfectly clear, have I not?”

……

Perched on top of a tough mattress and limbered in clothes that did not belong to her, Triss counted down the seconds it took for Philippa to complete her nightly routine.

Heated sandalwood oil applied on her skin, a whiff of spikenard and cinnamon perfume behind her earlobes. The meticulous washing of her teeth and the unlacing of her shirt to cool her temperature. Long, tousled dark hair released from the customary ponytail to tumble marvelously over her shoulder.

It was maddening, really, how otherworldly Philippa looked sometimes.

Most of the times.

Her eyes caught Philippa’s on the mirror and she smiled faintly as the other woman made a dramatic show of pinching some color into her cheeks.

This less reserved, more good-humored side of Philippa had creeped up on Triss suddenly and without forewarning while they were traveling together.

It was one thing to fend off Philippa’s stern reprimands and seething glares, and entirely another to deal with her playful mischievousness.

The thought of missing either was uncomfortably upsetting.

“You are an aenigma of emotions personified, Triss Merigold,” Philippa’s smooth tone brought her back to the present. She had turned, staring not at Triss but very nearly through her, if such thing were feasible. And if it was, Triss was sure none other than this woman could manage it. “From content to demure within mere seconds.”

“I assure you it is not intentional,” Triss replied and flexed her fingers against the bedsheets. Clad in Philippa’s dress shirt and so casually relaxed while settled on a bed under the other woman’s heated gaze did peculiar things to her limbs.

Philippa chuckled deeply. “And here I stood flattered that you would go to such creative lengths to seduce me.”

Triss quirked a brow in both amusement and genuine inquiry. “Is that what this is? A game of seduction?”

Philippa’s hum vibrated and echoed off the walls of both the small room and Triss’s chest.

“You tell me, Triss,” she ran her eyes deliberately over Triss’s form on the bed. “How am I to interpret that look?”

Triss inclined her head, regarding the tendons of Philippa’s forearms with apt fascination, exposed after she had rolled up her shirt’s sleeves to her elbows and straining as they supported Philippa’s weight on the vanity. “What look?” She mumbled innocently.

“ _That_ look,” Philippa’s smirk was unmistakable. It grew and grew until the smugness carved itself into the crinkles of her eyes.

Triss loathed that it too did indescribable things to her limbs. If it didn’t, perhaps she would have been more capable (though no more willing) of fleeing the room before the budding tension between them asphyxiated her.

Alas, she was rooted to the spot, almost helpless against it.

Almost.

She blinked and clasped her hands on top of her lap. “I would rather you did not go tomorrow,” she declared, hoping that weaponized honesty may ward Philippa off.

No such luck.

“I know,” Philippa stated simply, and it sounded neither cocky nor contemptuous; merely the truth. Her lips were pursed – in thought or something else, Triss could not know. She desperately wished that she did.

Triss nudged the dog-eared book in front of her shut and a weak cloud of dust flew up between her hands. Outside, rain was spattered against the window. Philippa had unlocked the latch earlier and through the tiny gap, the distinct scent of nature drifted in, a breathful of petrichor in Triss’s lungs.

The delicate balance they had both tiptoed on for so long had worn her out and all that persisted were aching bones, a hollowness within her wounded chest and maybe somewhere else, too.

Triss felt like molten liquid on the sheets and jaded of their threadbare tête-à-têtes. She was prepared to throw all caution to the wind if it meant the unpalatable feeling would be chased away.

She placed _Popular Northern Stanzas_ on the cheap, filthy bedside table and leaned back on the headboard with an emotionally overloaded sigh.

“Come here,” she breathed. She pled with her eyes and the accelerated rise and fall of her chest that Philippa would not deny her this. Did not dare deny her this.

She could not fathom a case in which she would survive the rejection.

Luckily, she wasn’t required to.

After two blinks, Philippa pushed off the table and paced forward steadily and surely - and damn her for maintaining such composure when Triss was certain her own heart was hiking its way up and out of her throat.

Damn the sway of her hips and damn the hands buried in the pockets of her pants, an action entirely insignificant if not for the fact that it was Philippa Eilhart performing it.

Triss tried very hard to steady her breathing when Philippa towered over her by the edge of the bed. She tried even harder to control it when Philippa’s eyes peered into hers ruthlessly, digging and prodding at the very essence of her being.

“What now?” Philippa asked calmly, collected as ever. Triss thought to strangle the tranquility out of her.

The candlelight next to them cast a golden sheen over her face and the smooth plane of her cleavage where it vanished beneath the slightly unfastened shirt.

She pursed her lips and shook her head. Philippa was leaving in a few hours. Sincerity would not cost her more than that loss.

“I wish I were your undoing,” she confessed.

Philippa did not move, but Triss could have sworn the sharp ends of her face softened. Her inhalations became more audible.

“Unlikely,” she murmured seconds after. They both knew it was true.

Triss swallowed heavily. “But you could very well be mine.”

They both knew _that_ was true, too.

In the loaded silence that ensued, Philippa tilted her head and measured Triss up unabashedly. Her lips gleamed shiny and supple under the warm light.

“Is that what you desire, Triss? To be undone?”

What was it about Philippa’s choice of words that rendered her incapable of lucid thought?

Triss exhaled loudly. The idea of Philippa tearing apertures at her seams and then stitching her back up together in whatever order she preferred sent her erratic breaths into overdrive. The pressure building up at her chest and everywhere else all at once was threatening to spill over and overtake her.

She could bare to merely stare at Philippa for only a second longer.

When she pushed upwards and her hands cupped Philippa’s jawline, the skin underneath was still icky and warm to the touch from the seeped oils.

Triss minded neither the clammy texture nor the crisp smell of parsley and sandalwood invading her senses. She was too preoccupied getting lost in the softness of Philippa’s lips, the heat of her mouth as it unhesitatingly enveloped Triss’s bottom lip, and a short while later, the velvety heat of her tongue as it rolled against hers.

Philippa immediately pressed closer, an arm firmly wound around the small of her back and her other hand safely tucked away on the slope of her neck.

She tasted of some exotic fruit and baking soda; when Triss hooked her tongue under her teeth the other woman deepened the kiss and hummed unreservedly.

The sound was inebriating, and Triss moaned loudly, the vibration lost somewhere between the loop of their kiss. Fingers tangled into the hair at the base of her neck and teeth bit down on her bottom lip.

She briefly wondered if Philippa realized she was giving her no space to manoeuvre or breathe, and immediately followed it up with the thought that not only did she probably realize, but she was doing it deliberately.

When she managed to pull away for a second, breathing laboriously and molded against Philippa’s front, she knew that the image of her palm’s flushed imprints on Philippa’s cheeks and the swell of her pink, debauched lips had been seared into the back of her eyelids.

She would not forget anytime soon.

Philippa’s hooded eyes stayed anchored on her mouth and aside from her heavy breathing, made no other sound or move to resume.

Triss was feeling feverish, perspiration gathering where Philippa’s touch was almost burning at her synapses but even more so where Philippa _wasn’t_ touching her. The pensive gloss over Philippa’s eyes did nothing to cool her temperature.

“If it isn’t me, don’t think of it,” Triss’s voice was rasped and wanton.

She layered open-mouthed kisses over the side of her mouth and her cheeks and felt not the least bit ashamed of her demand. Not when Philippa’s blown pupils snapped up to meet hers heatedly and her body pushed forward, shifting their combined weight onto the bed.

Triss fell back with ease, taking Philippa with her and locking her dexterously in the ample space between her thighs.

It had been so, so long since she had last indulged in this. The motions were familiar, but the weight on top of her entirely novel.

Philippa balanced herself on one bent arm and didn’t spare a second more before claiming Triss’s mouth again, deep and forceful and almost as delicious as the grinding of her hips, which had Triss whimpering into the kiss obscenely. She hooked her hands at the nape of Philippa’s neck and arched her back like a closely strung longbow, pushing up where Philippa was pressing down.

She swallowed the answering groan eagerly.

When Philippa’s eyes locked with hers again, laden with lust, darkness and unequivocal purpose, the hand which had settled comfortably on Triss’s hipbone under the bunched up fabric moved up to toy with the ties of her nightshirt. Her lips were soothing and tender on the tilt of Triss’s jaw, but Triss could only focus on the fingers ghosting above her chest.

“Don’t,” she implored.

But the dread itching at her throat quickly knuckled under an entirely ill-advised surge of affection as Philippa onehandedly retied the top lace with a loose knot and pressed a chaste kiss there.

When she lifted her eyes again, Philippa must have caught the brewing sentiment despite how arduously Triss tried to suppress it, because the southbound trail of her fingers paused and her face loomed ominously over her own.

Triss braced herself for whatever followed, but when she concentrated on Philippa’s gaze she discovered not much had altered in its intensity.

“Triss,” Philippa commanded, and though the quality of her voice was satiny, her words were precisely cutting. “Do not expect of me what I cannot offer.”

Triss took a deep breath, embraced the quietness, and reached out to tuck her hand under the linen covering Philippa’s skin, over the soft flesh of her collarbone. When her touch lingered there, pressing at her thorax and then the underside of her breast, a thumb hovering just above her nipple, Philippa released a tense but measured breath against her lips.

“I don’t,” Triss assured, and was relieved when the resolve in her voice sufficed.

Philippa kept her eyes half open when she landed another bruising kiss on Triss’s lips, gaze as remorseless as her tongue and Triss had no choice but whine into it, feeling like she was on the cusp of tearing out of her own skin and transcending into another plane of existence.

Absently, a nebulous string of questions plucked at her mind; as to whether Philippa was this attentive with all her ministrations, if her skin always glistened this much from heat and exertion, or if she stared so profoundly into the eyes of each and every self-absorbed countess she pinned and fucked into the mattress.

But then Philippa pulled back, turned, mouthing and grazing her teeth over Triss’s carotid artery while nimble fingertips found purchase against the vertex of her thighs, and any semblance of a sophisticated or articulate thought flew out of the window almost as swiftly as Triss’s hands did to clutch frantically at the crumpled sheets surrounding her.

……

Ciri halfheartedly stirred the broth in her bowl with the wooden spoon and picked her head up to shoot a cursory glance at Geralt. Ever since he had limped up to the top of that hill in Sodden, he had not stopped brooding. So apart from shitty food and insipid juice, Ciri now had to make do with subpar company, too.

“Stop playing with your meal. Eat,” he ordered in a gruff, and Ciri scowled at the tone. Nevertheless, to appease him, she lifted the spoon to her lips and sipped at the tasteless soup.

After a moment of grimacing and trying to keep the liquid down, she looked up again. “Are you perhaps going to inform me of when you plan to leave this cursed place?”

The only response was threatening silence. Ciri did not heed the warning. She would get some information toady, on one matter or another.

“Or maybe you’d rather talk about Yennefer?” She raised a questioning brow, but shrank back in her seat when Geralt pinned her a withering glare, as if she had offended his manhood or something.

Well joke’s on him. Cirilla, princess of Cintra, had been fixed with much more intimidating looks in her short life. She was, after all, Queen Calanthe’s granddaughter.

“Fine! At least tell me what it was that you saw at Sodden Hill,” she huffed, reluctantly drinking some of her juice as a peace offering. “Please,” she added as an afterthought, though not very convincingly, if Geralt’s narrowed eyes were any indication.

However, either her sweet disposition did the trick or Geralt grew tired of her prodding, because the man sighed and crossed his arms on top of the table in front of him intently.

“They’ve erected an obelisk there, with the names of the sorceresses who fell in the battle with Nilfgaard,” he explained.

Ciri blinked slowly. “Sorceresses… fought in the battle at Sodden?”

Geralt nodded in the affirmative. “I guess they were trying to protect the Northern Kingdoms.”

She could not help the sneer that tugged at her lips. “They couldn’t have tried to protect Cintra…?”

Geralt drank a mouthful of his water but did not engage with her.

Still, something bothered Ciri, like a needle nipping at the back of her head. “Was any of them…”

“No,” Geralt interrupted briskly. He tightened his jaw and looked away, towards the other patrons of the inn. “No it wasn’t her.”

“But it was someone else you knew?”

Geralt’s eyes slowly drifted back to hers. He had a look of helpless resignation about him. “You really will not let this go, will you?”

Ciri pursed her lips, straightened her shoulder, and in typical royal fashion, resolutely shook her head.

Geralt cursed under his breath and then took another swig of his water. “Yes,” he exhaled. “Another mage I knew.”

“And…” Ciri pushed her tongue against her teeth, much like she was pushing her luck with this next question, “… were you two… you know…”

Geralt’s eyes squinted condescendingly again. “No,” he stated. “No we were not.” Then, noticing Ciri’s unrelenting and curious gaze, he sighed again, relaxing his posture. “She was…” he paused. “She was a kind of…” Geralt muttered a curse under between his teeth again.

“A friend?” Ciri supplied.

Geralt scowled at the splintered wood beneath his palms, as if slighted that she had pinched the word out of his mind before he could relay it himself.

“Of sorts. Not really,” he admitted.

His brows creased. Within a matter of days, Ciri had become extremely well-versed in the limited but intense spectrum of Geralt’s grimaces. This was one of begrudging reflectiveness. “She had been surprisingly kind to me. People usually aren’t; especially not witches. It makes very little difference to a witcher, but it’s still a shame to have that type of rarity perish.”

Satisfied with the genuineness of his account, Ciri hummed and ate some more of the broth.

For now, she would not prod anymore.

…..

The pouring had ceased and the quiet had settled.

The dim blue light of early dawn sifted through the muck spots on the window, and through bleary eyes Triss caught sight of the dust particles as they floated carelessly around the room before landing on the naked stretch of Philippa’s arm.

She stayed like that for a while, motionless and with baited breath, wary of dispelling the morning calmness. If she did not move, and the itch beneath her gauzes was not so palpable, and the rucksack jam-packed with Philippa’s toiletries was not so neatly placed at the far corner of the room, Triss could almost fool herself into believing this was a daydream that could last.

With a sigh, Triss stole a glance at the curl of Philippa’s eyelashes and the tiny parting of her lips, the smoothness of her even breaths.

If there was any academic instruction on how to curb foolhardy sentiment and longing, Triss had not received it in her lifetime.

The mere thought of being left alone with her nightmares and the unease of her disfigured skin by nightfall had her trembling.

Every time she closed her eyes she relived fire and death. The memory of Coral’s pale, muddied and bloody corpse was brutal and unforgiving in her mind, nearly as much as that of the revolting grimace on the Nilfgaardian soldier’s face as he rough-handled her to the scorching end of his torch.

She remembered Yennefer’s earnest, tipsy laughter from the day before the battle and found her eyes watering at the prospect of never getting to hear it again.

Triss swallowed and flexed her toes where they were tangled and hooked over Philippa’s ankle. She traced a semi-circle on her shoulder and watched as the goosebumps as they jumped under the pad of her finger.

Philippa shifted under the bedsheets and after a few moments lazily cracked a hazy eye open. “Too early,” she grunted.

“I’m sorry,” Triss murmured.

“Liar.”

Triss smiled easily. “Fine,” she shrugged. “I’m not. I woke up feeling adventurous and plotted to pester you into humoring me.”

The sheets rustled some more as Philippa hummed and turned on her side, shooing away Triss’s hand when she made to pinch her nipple through the sheets.

“What a scandal,” she rolled her eyes, and finally locked Triss’s wandering arm in her elbow, pulling until Triss had no choice but to huddle closer, chest pressed to Philippa’s side.

Her wounds ached in protest, but made no move to redeem them.

“Mhm,” Triss stared up at her, chin perched on her shoulder and lips pouting as Philippa’s eyelids dared to droop closed again. “I feel truly wicked.”

“Surely even the wicked must rest?” Philippa groaned.

Finding herself without the ability to move her upper limbs under Philippa’s tight restraint, she puckered her lips and pressed one, two, three kisses on Philippa’s clavicle.

“I don’t feel like resting,” she whispered into the cool skin.

“Mmm.”

“Philippa…”

“No,” Philippa did not open her eyes again, not even after Triss wiggled futilely in her hold and nudged at the insides of her thigh with her knee.

Finally, Triss bit her lip and exhaled heavily, sinking back onto Philippa’s shoulder in surrender.

She dreaded going back to sleep for a variety of reasons, but sooner rather than later the silence and skin-to-skin contact took a toll on her. Fogginess and fatigue tugged stubbornly at her eyelashes, and her arms went lax in Philippa’s grasp.

As the last threads of consciousness started to ebb away, she registered the quiet movements at her side; Philippa’s fingers as they carded through her curls and the nails tickling at the inside of Triss’s palm.

The next time she woke up, the unkempt nightshirt on Triss’s body, the lingering scintilla of spikenard and sandalwood and a folded note on top of her book with the words ‘Don’t Trust Anyone’ scrawled in it were the only proof that Philippa had ever been there at all.

……


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I appreciate that, but I strongly doubt you could ever recognize the true face of cynicism, Aileyn,” she responded. “You’ve surely never encountered it before in this Temple.”
> 
> “That may be true,” Aileyn concurred reluctantly, but her eyes were too smart and her smile too kind to be accepting of defeat. “Alas, though I’m young, I’ve encountered anguish and longing in spades. And despite all else which I may not understand, Triss, I recognize the face of those better than most.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have not forgotten about this! thank you for sticking around.
> 
> one more chapter left for this part of the story. in case it has not become evident just yet, these events are leading up to Blood of Elves.

**Evensong**

“ _Julian Alfred Pankratz (b. 1229) , Viscount de Lettenhove, or, as more popularly referred to; Master Jaskier, was a celebrated poet and bard, most famous for his literacy pieces and emotive ballads on the journeys of Geralt of Rivia, Yennefer of Vengerberg and Princess Cirilla of Cintra._

_Apart from his long list of academic achievements and critically acclaimed professional works, he held an indisputably even lengthier list of scorned lovers and perilous affairs._

_More noteworthy for the purposes of this publication, however, are the series of diplomatic letters and unsealed imperial documents unearthed at the turn of the century during the authorized excavations at his last ever reported location in what was formerly known as the principality of Creyden._

_While I endeavored futilely to gain access to those records when I traveled up north, I did manage to communicate with an officer directly involved with overseeing the restoration and preservation of those artifacts. He strongly maintained that the documents were property entirely of the Kingdoms of Redania and Temeria, and their contents could only be disclosed by royal decree of Their Highnesses._

_And so, it seemed, the long list of scorned lovers and perilous affairs included ludicrous bargains with disdainful royals, too.”_

**\- E.K, ‘ _Master Jaskier_ ’ in _The Untold Tales of Legendary Northern Characters_  
(c. 1488)**

……

Keira took a long drag off of her pipe. “How in the fucking tarnation are you standing here?”

Triss stared at her for a second before tugging the rucksack off the top of her shoulder and gingerly laying it on the velvet of the two-seater at her side. The wound on her shoulder irritated her still, and she had to be careful not to strain it for the next few weeks. There were in fact many other sensitive matters which Triss would have to take care not to strain, for the next few weeks.

With interest, she noticed that the terracotta pots of lemon balm by her laboratory’s window were sprightly and fragrant as ever, and the vials of alchemical ingredients on her shelves were in perfect order, not a speckle of dust visible on them.

As if she had never left at all. As if this was another cold morning in Temeria where Keira had forced open the latch of her door and settled herself unscrupulously on top of important scattered parchments on Triss’s workbench, boredom weighing down on her shoulders and crude words rolling off the tip of her tongue.

Triss clasped her hands in front of her and dragged her eyes back to Keira’s. “I sent King Foltest a letter informing of my arrival,” she said carefully.

Keira shook her head to flip back the blonde curtain of hair falling over her cheek. “That’s not what I asked.”

Triss looked away and moved towards the bookrest by one of the windows, where chapter seven of _Prima Materia in Spells_ was littered with scribbled notes and an imprint of larkspur blooms from Maribor to keep track of the page.

She skimmed her fingertips over the ink and felt a distinct sense of nostalgia for a time not so long ago, when she could mindlessly thumbtack ideas for medicinal concoctions on her wall and amuse herself observing lapwings hop around the marsh grounds near the castle from her balcony.

“I fought a battle and lived, as so many others have done before me.” Triss stated, and traced the sharp triangle over the side of the page, the alchemical symbol of fire, two lines converging at a point on the top like the obelisk with her name carved in it on Sodden Hill. Then, before Keira could press the issue, she turned to smile dimly at her. “You watered my plants.”

Keira regarded her closely before exhaling a puff of smoke into the room. “I _used_ your plants. All that grows outside my lab are shrubs, and the forsythia is as valuable to effecting my formulas as it is to attracting Redanian honey bees. That is to say, not at all.”

“I see.”

The other woman took another slow drag and then nodded towards one of the cabinets.

“There is a bottle of Kaedwenian maraschino stashed in there,” she explained. Her eyes were unremitting in their scrutiny. “Humor me.”

Triss spared a glance at the cupboard, then back at the residue of tobacco in the bowl of Keira’s wooden pipe. “Is substance abuse a prerequisite for this conversation?”

Keira lifted a brow and huffed. “Did your time with the Rectoress really turn you into such a wiseacre, Triss?”

She did not grace that with a retort. Instead, she leaned over the mortar on one of her countertops to check whether the expensive mound of garnet shellac she had ordered from Verden before the war broke out was still there.

As she suspected, not much of it remained. Evidently, the forsythia outside Keira’s laboratory had not been fit for making nail varnish, either.

“Or was it perhaps your brief excursion with Philippa Eilhart I should fault for that?”

Triss paused. She straightened back up and threw a sidelong glance at Keira. “Gossip spreads as fast as the pox I see.”

“Faster,” Keira corrected. “Especially when it’s simultaneously passed along by both lowlife whores and a castle’s royal staff,” she hummed thoughtfully, “not that there’s much differentiating the two.”

“Spare me the vulgar sapience, Keira, I beg of you.”

“Apologies, Merigold. There’s simply no genteel way of saying I recently rode King Venzlav’s general into professing two frazzled sorceresses paid Brugge a visit,” Keira leered filthily. “And proceeded to opt for a room at a rundown inn instead of his Graciousness’s luxurious guest chambers?”

Triss maintained her aloof disposition despite the curiosity spiking within her.

She had had no clue that Philippa visited King Venzlav’s Court during her brief stay there. She had been so worn down by their voyage that as soon as they secured shelter for the day she had blissfully burrowed herself unconscious into the warm sheets.

Decrepit inn or not, it had been more welcoming than tough soil and camping on dirt tracks.

“What can I say?” Triss pursed her lips. “There’s just something about the visuals of decrepitude and flyblown mattresses that really does it for me, on a primitive level,” she mocked. She warded off the instinctive grimace at the crassness of her own words.

“Mhm,” Keira concurred, head tilted and lips curled provocatively around the pipe’s mouth, “no doubt the sight of Philippa’s dexterous hands did not much ease your rising turmoil. And she has always been so incredibly liberal with those…”

“Was there a question wedged somewhere amongst all that innuendo Keira, or does my purported wisdom deceive me?”

“Indeed it does,” Keira sighed and hopped off the desk carelessly. “I do have questions for you, but whatever freakishness you and Philippa get up to on top of squalid palliasses is mostly beyond them.”

“Then why bring it up at all?” Triss questioned and moved forward, gently thumbing at the petals of the eglantine near her.

Eglantine was neither useful for medicinal purposes nor nail polish. Yet the blooms stood beautiful still and unwilted against Triss’s hand. If Keira picked up on her trail of thought, she did not mention it.

“Because it is all I’ve been made aware of,” Keira huffed. “I lie in bed with an esteemed prostitute and find out you are alive and frolicking around lower Brugge with Eilhart; I lie in bed with an esteemed general and deduce much of the same. A few days prior Fercart has arrived in Temeria with all sorts of demands to the King and inquisitive peeks towards your empty Council seat. Despite what the color of my hair may suggest, Triss, I can at least recognize when I’m being left out of the loop,” she tsked and abandoned the pipe on a countertop haphazardly. Tendrils of smoke unfurled out of her nostrils as she exhaled noisily.

From the tenseness of her hand as it gripped the back of a chair next to her, Triss could surmise she was feeling less than amicable at the moment. “On second thought,” she narrowed her eyes deviously, “did you actually?”

“Did I what?” Triss asked absently, mind still whirring at the fact that Fercart had arrived at Court only so recently.

“Fuck Philippa.”

It would be counterproductive and suspicious to deny it now. It was as commonplace as the flu to hear of sorcerers and sorceresses sharing the same bed, and there was no reason to be ashamed or protective of the fact.

Even though next to nothing had felt commonplace about the way Triss hissed Philippa’s name when she wove her tongue between her thighs.

“Nevermind that I did,” Triss waved away her hand dismissively, but the flash of intrigue in Keira’s eyes was unmistakable. “Tell me more of Fercart’s demands.”

“I’m not telling you more of anything,” Keira stated, and the flash gave way to palpable irritation. “Not until you sit down and enlighten me as to what gives in this fucking Brotherhood. I abstain from one battle and suddenly the entire Chapter seems just about ready to implode, Fercart of Cidaris is whispering sweet nothings into Foltest’s ears, dwarves confide more in whores about the war than my fellow mages confide in me, and to top it all off, little Triss Merigold who is supposed to be covered in dirt and worms on Sodden Hill is instead reinventing the concept of lewdness abed with Philippa Eilhart,” she scoffed, slamming an open palm against the back of the chair. “I’ll be damned if I say another thing before you start offering some explanations.”

Triss sighed, and upon further deliberation, wearily reached out for the liquor cabinet.

…...

She did not keep track, but winter had shifted into spring, and then May’s bearable warmth had succumbed to the sweltering heat of the summer, yet still; she had not received news of any of those she most wished to speak to.

She had not heard from Yennefer, who was still skirting around the edges of a veil which apparently no one could pierce to reveal her location. She had not heard from Tissaia, whose determined loyalty in the Brotherhood had remained undivided despite whatever initial apprehensions she fostered after Sodden.

And she had not heard from Philippa, either, even though mentions of her name constantly crisscrossed the Continent and her distant, amorphous presence sporadically loomed over Triss’s thoughts.

More importantly, news of her survival, though spread across Temeria, were constantly being overtaken by local myth and rumors of her incineration on the Hill.

It left her in a state of limbo; often she would find herself wondering if perhaps she was indeed as dead as legend dictated her to be. If not physically, then she most certainly felt it mentally, at one point or another.

Despite all that and then some, Triss had no intentions of adopting a laissez-faire approach to her own (uncertain) life – political aspects or otherwise. She sustained a solid seat in King Foltest’s Council, and made sure to offer the privilege of a different outlook whenever it appeared that Fercart’s proposals were the sole way forward.

It had become extremely dreary a task to constantly outmanoeuvre him; with dismay, Triss realized, even more tedious than perpetually parrying Willemer’s stale insults. There was something almost covetous about his eyes when he stared at her from across the dining table, and his already distasteful remarks at Keira’s expense had seemingly grown steadily more severe after Sodden.

Originally she thought it might have been due to lingering contempt for Keira’s choice to not to make a stand in the war, but comparable heat seeped into his exchanges with Triss, and it was then that she started suspecting things were amiss.

Her worries were only exacerbated during the armistice negotiations; when Fercart fashioned himself King Foltest’s de facto chief advisor and adamantly requested that he be the only one to join the summit in Redania for peace consultations.

“The blasted swine,” Keira had thrown open the kitchen’s doors without care or reservation for whoever might have been standing behind them.

At the sight of her balled fists, a dozen or so cooks and servants had swiftly dispersed like a shoal of fish suddenly approached by an aquatic beast. “The half-wit arsewipe!” She had exclaimed.

Cutlery and pots had rattled as she manhandled a ladle off the washing load and pointed at its long handle. “I will shove this so far up his rectum he’ll be tasting the silver on his tongue!”

Triss had grimaced at the unwelcome visual and adjusted the hem of her dress before tiredly taking a seat on top of a wooden table a little far off the furnace.

She had stared into the soft flames licking at the oven’s walls for a long time. She had stared into the green apples poking out from beneath an assortment of other fruits in the bowl next to her for even longer.

“You ought to be there,” Keira had hurled the ladle back into the soapsuds. “In what distant and moronic realm do both he and Foltest reside where it is not evident that you ought to be there? You’re just short of a local legend for the folks at Sodden and nearly everyone important in that conference is more or less fond of you. Sending in Fercart as the only representative is a bloody affront is what it is.”

“He’s a member of the Council of Mages,” Triss had supplied quietly.

Unlike Keira, she preferred calm and collected deliberation over outbursts of violence towards helpless culinary earthenware. At least in the presence of others.

When Triss had found herself alone in her quarters later that night, she had directed language so foul and uncouth at her walls that she thought some of her plants might have withered just slightly in horror.

Two vials of medicinal clay paste had unfortunately not survived the conflict.

“He and his membership can go fuck each other, quite frankly. It’d be the only shag that idiot gets in his lifetime anyways,” Keira had spat, glaring stilettos at one of the maids in the far end of the room who had committed the grand felony of entering the kitchen to grab her lunch two minutes too soon.

The girl’s eyes had blown wide as saucers and she had immediately ducked back in the shadows which she had emerged from.

“When was the last time Fercart and Radcliffe of Oxenfurt agreed on anything?” Keira continued. “Don’t look at me like that; despite my youth, I have both reliable sources and an intuition to boot. Intuition which, at the moment, also tells me that whatever valuable benefit we might have gained through your passing fancy with Philippa will no doubt bite the dust as soon as she sees Fercart is spearheading Temeria’s participation.”

Triss seriously questioned whether that purported benefit was fit to be described even as nominal or trifle; much less valuable. But she’d had other larger concerns occupying her mind at that time.

“Maybe so, but he holds Vilgefortz’s favor, does he not?” She had pointed out. “You mentioned that Fercart brought him up to Bronibor?”

“And does this not surprise you?” Keira had whirled around to stare at Triss strangely. “Why would a famed and influential mage such as Vilgefortz value the whims of the Council’s youngest member when he can focus his attentions on the Chapter instead? Something here stinks, and it’s not just the chef’s pitiful excuse of a duck meat roast.”

Triss had pursed her lips. “It does,” she had conceded simply, but hesitant, unwillingly recalling the creased and smudged note carefully folded between the chapters of _Romance and Tragedy_ and _Military Couplets_ in her copy of _Popular Northern Stanzas._

Part of her loathed Philippa for the cold feeling of distrust and suspicion festering within her. Another part of her firmly reminded her that it was her fate at Sodden that had hardened her, and not Philippa’s stylishly curled scribbles on a flimsy piece of paper.

“Alas,” she had continued, eyes fixed on the distant trees outside the windows and fingers toying with her pendant, “I have been personally tasked by Foltest with reporting on Adda at the Temple of Melitele. I am to depart in early August. There’s evidently not much I can do about your intuitions.”

Keira’s lips had twisted into something sinister and scurrilous then.

“Why,” she had drawled, “you could always join the evening prayers.”

…...

Valdo Marx was a stodgy minstrel at best and a pompous egomaniac at worst. His ballads were no more interesting to him than a game of chess was to a starving kikimora.

It was thus no small sacrifice that he allocated much of his very precious time to listening in on his incessant histrionics, and definitely not a choice Jaskier had made with a smile on his lips.

But the man had recently returned from a short expedition to Brugge, and he would no doubt have a lot of gossip to share about all the military and political developments in the South.

With set shoulders and a red apple in hand, Jaskier kept an ear out for any mention of Nilfgaard.

“You are sure to score high with that story, Master Valdo!” Exclaimed a short errand boy with barely any hair sprouted on his chin from within the circle of admirers gathered around the troubadour.

‘That story’ was a long and inane tale about fragments of the battle at Sodden. With such mediocre and shopworn descriptions, Jaskier strongly doubted the ballad should even be admissible for the upcoming preliminary congregation of troubadours in Bremervoord.

The truly big event was the festival in Cidaris; but Jaskier, for all his ambition, could not glimpse that much further into the future quite yet.

Of course he was not going to let Valdo know that.

“It is not even remotely satisfying to score high, young man. One must always strive for the best ranks in life!”

_Ugh, pseudo-philosopher._

“And you’re sure to get it sir, what with Master Jaskier also withdrawing from the preliminaries this year.”

_Finally, a sensible thought!_

Valdo Marx’s face contorted into one of unbridled derision. “That talentless poetaster could not ever dream of competing with anyone more sophisticated than a suckling. His participation or lack thereof is a non-issue for me.”

Well this disrespect just would not do. Not under Jaskier’s watch.

“Oh what sweet relief!” A voice suddenly boomed melodiously, and the young man of medium height appeared in front of the tent, with short hair and a vibrant doublet as blue as the color of his eyes lolling about as he gesticulated flamboyantly. “For a moment I fretted that you might be opposed to my being appointed as a judge for the segment of romantic lyricism in the finals, but I see now such worry was needless!” His sugary tone could not have been underlaid with more ridicule.

Marx seemed at a temporary loss of words before recovering swiftly. “Eyes open Jaskier,” he mocked. “I heard Duke Raymund is still keen on chucking your heart into the frying pan.”

Jaskier’s throat bobbed into an almost comical gulp, but he would like to think he masked it with an appropriately disdainful expression.

“Resorting to petty threats… It is oh so depressing to see how low you’ve really stooped since we last encountered each other, Valdo.”

“Ha!” Valdo laughed incredulously. “Says the so-called artist who cannot write a single limerick without that Witcher at his side! What says you, Jaskier; was it even you that wrote all that fodder, or was it actually him? Skill-wise, it would be hard to tell…”

Jaskier gaped openly for a second before scoffing in outrage. “And what would you know about skill, you uncultured numbskull? Even nursery rhymes are an art more refined than your dreary portrayals of Sodden!”

With a scuff of the chair’s legs on the tiles and a push and shove, Valdo stomped over to Jaskier with all the finesse of a gelding inside a china shop.

“You are just envious I saw and heard more of the war than you could ever dream of, Jaskier,” he spat.

He really should have kept silent. He really should have not bitten off more than he could chew, and reveal his possibly dubious motives. Or reveal that he already knew plenty of the war.

That was what Dijkstra would say if he were there. But oh well, that hog of a man was not there, and Jaskier was always known to be a loudmouth.

“You ignoramus!” Jaskier laughed despite himself. “I have more sources than you could ever possibly imagine. My knowledge spans from the formations of the sorcerers when they entered the battle to the name of the soldier who sounded the counter-attack!”

“Oh do you now? I know two of the first responding healers!”

“Well I’ve seen a draft of the battle map!”

“Is that all?” Valdo mocked, and turned to cackle with the group of people behind him. When his eyes shifted back to Jaskier, they were full of arrogance. “I spoke to a dwarven company leaving the scene!”

Jaskier hollered, though no one rushed to join him in his hysterics like they had Valdo.

It was sobering, and as quickly as he had burst into laughter he straightened up and pointed a haughty finger at the top button of Valdo’s doublet.

“Right,” he spoke slowly. “As if not every single dwarf from the mouth of the Yaruga to the Mahakam mines is going to claim they were at the Hill. Just when I think your gullibility could not possibly reach new heights, it soars up sky-high like a firecracker, Master Valdo.”

Valdo’s sneer stretched impossibly wider. “My source,” he enunciated through gritted teeth, “is undeniably credible. His whereabouts during the aftermath of the battle cannot only be confirmed, but he was also aware of the mishap with the sorcerers’ death count before it’s even become popular legend across lower Temeria!”

“Undeniably credible my arse-” Jaskier cut himself off, frowning. “Hold on, what?”

“What is it dear colleague; are you finally starting to realize who among us is the ignoramus and who the true academic? Who the versemonger and who the true arti-”

“Valdo you are that last stubborn piece of turd stuck under the sole of my boot and the scraps of muck clinging underneath my fingernails. Gods be my witnesses I will make sure your ballads score below zero for a decade more if you do not shut up and tell me of what mishap you speak of!”

……

The hors-d'œuvres in the Temple came in the form of salt-buttered bread and a generous albeit lackluster selection of berries strewn around her platter. Triss’s lip jerked downwards at the sight, but she willed herself to smile, even if strained, at the young apprentice who placed the meal in front of her.

“Something ails you?” Mother Nenneke asked easily, leaning forward with her hands clasped on top of the table.

The gleam in her eyes told Triss any answer would be merely redundant. The old woman already knew fairly well what it was that had incited Triss’s poorly concealed scowl.

“Of course not, Mother Nenneke,” Triss replied anyways, because courtesy demanded it and because the prospect of the priestess writing her off as a spoiled brat by the end of her stay was truly the last of her intentions. “Please do not make of my reaction anything more than unpretentious surprise. I am not used to such simplicities, but would not dare reject your hospitality.”

Mother Nenneke’s stoic expression did not change. “And since when child,” she started, glancing for a second where Triss’s fork halfheartedly jabbed at a blueberry, “do fancy sorceresses care for what old and simple priestesses such as myself make or do not make of their reactions?”

_Child? I could hold around the same years as you, old woman._

Triss forced her brow to smooth out before it could further crease. She refused to give up Nenneke’s stare so easily. “Ever since priestesses take care to not inquire about a fancy sorceress’s peculiar habits of avoiding the hearth and opting to wear high-collared gowns in late summer.”

Mother Nenneke shook her head and leaned back onto her chair. “Do not confuse yourself amidst your sorrows, Triss,” her eyes were unreadable. “It is not that the priestesses take care to not prod at your insecurities. It is that they do not care to do so. Why would they? They’ve nothing to earn or learn from it. I’m afraid it is not kindness but disinterest that you’ve to thank for that, child.”

Triss swallowed down the sudden pain scratching at her throat.

With a small smile and helpless eyes, she nodded and bit into the slice of bread.

“Blessed be the indifferent, then,” she murmured.

…...

Bathed in darkness and reeking of horseshit, the small and uncomfortable stable Jaskier had found himself in was not the most luxurious of settings for a litterateur of his caliber, but it was definitely suitable for the particular brand of insanity he was about to embark on.

“This will cost you, master. And it’s quite the risky feat.”

“I know,” Jaskier tapped his foot impatiently. He was growing tired of this conversation already. He was fairly sure that one did not resort to business with a smuggler unless _risky_ was precisely what they had been prepared to sign up for.

Repeating it for the sake of emphasis was merely grating on his nerves at this point. “Just arrange it.”

“Forsooth I will. To Vizima, you said?”

Jaskier pressed his tongue on his teeth and wondered if the smuggler carried a switchblade with him; and if he did so, whether he would pull it loose against his throat if Jaskier were to call him, for example, a damned nitwit.

“Not to Vizima. I want to go _through_ Vizima. Just a brief stop,” he explained for the umpteenth time. “Then I need you to get me to Kaedwen.”

The man nodded grimly, but his eyes shone as if he’d won the lottery.

“Forsooth, master, forsooth… but Kaedwen is many lands away, and that will cost you even more dearly…”

Jaskier suppressed the instinctive need to smash his own head against the wall.

…...

Despite Nenneke’s assertions to the opposite, Triss soon found herself watched closely and with interest at all times of the day, and all days of the week, but especially so during her lazy strolls through the gardens with Adda by her stride.

The woman had grown up to bear unnaturally alabaster skin and greyed hair, but in her eyes Triss saw warmth and unassuming kindness.

Sometimes her sentences made sense, and then Triss conversed with her earnestly and patiently; but others they were a jerry-built sheaf of unrelated notions and sentiments, and Triss replied in the affirmative or negative even more patiently, but admittedly less sincerely.

Communication was mainly left to guesswork when Adda’s intellectual impairment reared its unpretty head.

Still, Triss enjoyed the company, and so focused as she was on the woman, some of her anxieties gave way to pleasant discussions and jovial flower picking through Hrosvitha’s cherished parterres.

Other times, her attention was divided; half of it concentrated on deciphering Adda’s latest conundrum of words and the other half attempting to pinpoint where the heated stare fixed on her back was coming from.

There were many girls there, some young and some older, but when they looked at her the emotion was the same : interest, scorn, wariness.

Not that one stare though. That stare was different.

When she mentioned it to Mother Nenneke in passing as summer became autumn but the hidden gazes became no less intense, the other woman only hummed and for long moments did not lift her eyes from the botanology tome cradled in her hands.

“There are admittedly several habits priestesses have to renounce in order to properly dedicate themselves to the Goddess and her virtue,” she said, and then carefully turned the page of her book over. “Looking is not one of them.”

The young woman whose distinctive habit of looking at Triss had thrown her so off-kilter was a young novice by the name of Aileyn, and friend of Iola, Mother Nenneke’s silent protégée.

Triss deftly acquired this information when Jarre, a young and overly enthusiastic squire at the Temple, joined her at the dinner table with misguided smiles and eyes full of futile hope.

Triss had been met with that very same gleam quite a few number of times in her lifespan, and she was fully aware of how useful it could be, when managed properly and with care. She was not above a little harmless manipulation; not even while dwelling in the house of a Goddess and surrounded by righteous and religious women.

There were several habits Triss would never wish to renounce in order to dedicate herself to Melitele, and looking was the least of them.

Virtue was not for her.

…..

Lili, (Lai-lee? Lee-lay? Keira did not know for sure and had not bothered to clarify since she never made a habit of addressing her lovers by name anyways), curled her fist over the sheet and batted her pretty eyelashes towards the sorceress nonchalantly.

Keira on the other hand, all of a sudden felt considerably less nonchalant and all the more alert.

“I beg your pardon?” She asked, sitting up straight on the bed.

The girl with suggestive lips and even more suggestive stares shrugged. “What? He was a fun lay.”

With a dismissive hand, Keira frowned and shook her head.

“I don’t care about that nincompoop’s no doubt entertaining incompetence – who did you say was the man entering with him?”

“I didn’t recognize him…”

“But you said his tattoo looked familiar,” Keira interrupted impatiently. “A silver eagle under his collar.”

Lili-or-Lee-lay-or-Lai-Lee nodded with her tongue in her cheek. “Yeah. He wasn’t wearing any armor or anything,” she started and then smirked, knowingly, “but I know the regulars and he’s definitely not one of them. He wasn’t looking to fool around like his friend was.”

Keira hummed, brows still furrowed, processing the information quickly in her head. “What was he looking for, then, according to your expert opinion?”

The girl laughed and then ran a nail over Keira’s exposed thigh provocatively, entirely nonplussed by the mage swatting her arm away.

“My expert opinion tells me he wouldn’t be able to do to you with his pecker half the things I could do with my tongue…”

Keira’s eyes narrowed to slits and she pushed a palm at the girl’s chest until she fell back and huffed in frustration.

“Spirits, what’s got your knickers all up in a twist? He’s just another man in a brothel; a fact dull as dishwater.”

“Answer the question.”

“Fine,” she sighed. “He was asking questions, seeking someone. I don’t know nothing else, I went upstairs with his friend a few minutes later. Now can we fuck?”

Keira cracked her fingers absently, thoughtful gaze directed at the window. A Redanian soldier searching for answers at a brothel of the Temerian capital during the heat of peace negotiations.

_That’s a new one._

“Apologies to your talented tongue,” Keira lamented, staring longingly at the willing eyes next to her. “But that’s going to have to wait.”

……

“Might I join you?” Triss adjusted the pendant hanging on her gown’s top buttons before smiling kindly at the blonde girl seated on the wooden bench below the large wisteria. How it had managed to grow there, Triss did not know.

She supposed there were a lot of curiosities about this place; mystical and spiritual as it was.

The nice smile eased on her lips earned her a thoughtful gaze and a hesitant nod, a slow shuffle to the side so that Triss would have elbow-room to pull at the hem of her dress as she settled down.

She did not miss the flutter of the girl’s eyelids up to the high neckline of her attire (perhaps slightly more easy to justify in early September), or the crinkle on her brow as Triss sighed and stared up at the wisteria buds trailing above them.

She allowed the silence to take root for a few moments, mostly because the words she had wanted to share were mired on her tongue as if doused in thick treacle.

Triss wet her lips and her throat, and shifted her watchful gaze onto the girl again. She could not have been older than fifteen years old.

“You need not hover around me like a specter if it is my company you seek,” she spoke, tone warm and the implicit offer even warmer.

Aileyn, with a chorus of golden hues in her hair and forethought swathing the green of her eyes, tilted her head reproachfully. “Mother Nenneke cautioned you may suggest that,” she stated. Her fingers tapped mindlessly on the pouch of ground sultanas and sunflower seeds in her hand.

Triss hummed amusedly and turned away, watching the garden birds a few meters away from them. “If Mother Nenneke advised you about me, then I’d better presume it is not my company you pursue at all.”

“I am a novice, lady sorceress… not a spy.”

Triss lifted a brow before pinching between her fingers some of the pulverized grains from the purse and tossing it out towards the feasting birds. “Was it Mother Nenneke’s cautions that indicated you are to avoid using my name also?” she questioned. Aileyn tightened her lips. “Because I’m certain you know of it.”

“I do,” she nodded carefully. “You are Triss Merigold of Maribor. King Foltest’s advisor.”

“Where I come from, _Aileyn_ , it is simply impolite not to address someone by their given name.” Triss stared at her under thick eyelashes. “Whether you be a novice or a spy.”

“A novice,” Aileyn insisted pointedly. Then, she threw some grains on the grounds. Her eyes were decidedly furtive. “I was in charge of escorting princess Adda on her walks before you arrived. I worry still for her, even if that task is no longer mine to fret over.”

Triss regarded her for a little while longer, scouring for traces of insincerity on her compassionate face, and finally looked away. She wanted to be able to smile openly at her, to dissuade her of any prejudice against sorceresses.

“What else?” Triss asked resolutely. A couple of cicadas buzzed eagerly around them, and Aileyn’s eyes followed them hopelessly for a moment before slowly refocusing on Triss.

“You are different,” she murmured, “unlike what I imagined.”

“And what, pray tell, did you imagine?” Triss laughed, eyes glinting almost fiendishly. “A wicked beldame on a broom?”

“Maybe,” Aileyn was clearly biting back a smirk when she settled the pouch on the space between them.

Triss narrowed her eyes playfully, but when she refocused, Aileyn’s stare had become even more attentive.

“I imagined the face of cynicism,” she offered. “You are not that.”

She bit at her bottom lip. _How young and naive this girl is,_ she mused. Then, unbidden, the pulsing thought struck her that this may have been how Philippa must have felt every time Triss was around her, and she cast it off with gentle shake of her head.

Triss was not an innocent fifteen year old novice.

“I appreciate that, but I strongly doubt you could ever recognize the true face of cynicism, Aileyn,” she responded. “You’ve surely never encountered it before in this Temple.”

“That may be true,” Aileyn concurred reluctantly, though her eyes were too smart and her smile too kind to be accepting of defeat. “But though I’m young, I’ve encountered anguish and longing in spades. And despite all else which I may not understand, Triss, I recognize the face of those better than most.”

Triss had little to say to that, so she pursed her lips, flexed her fingers, and threw another press of sultanas to the robins. If Aileyn spotted the slight tremor in her hand, she said nothing of it.

Instead, she smiled prettily. “But do tell… what does company with a wicked sorceress entail?”

Triss lifted a brow, playful smirk tugging on her lips.

For those seconds, she could pretend everything was okay.

She leaned in conspirationally. “A whole load of fun.”

……

Hrosvitha had missed a true calling. She should have taken up spying, what with her incredible perceptiveness and seemingly innate ability to cross the hallways in long robes and hard-soled shoes without producing a single sound.

“Lady Merigold,” Triss heard, and try as she might, could not help tensing just slightly. “Aileyn.” Next to her, Aileyn’s breath hitched.

She stalled, allowing the priestess to approach them while fighting off a scowl.

“Priestess,” she greeted, and the subtle sidestep she took to stand half in front of the younger girl was almost a reflex, though Triss knew that was almost impossible. She had been robbed of any maternal instinct decades ago. “Good morning to you.”

Hrosvitha was holding a bundle of candles in one hand, and a book on the other, which was absolutely normal for a holy woman.

On the contrary, Triss and Aileyn were clutching at their own dripping shoes, which was unfortunately a fact normal neither for a novice nor a sorceress.

“Early wake?” Hrosvitha asked, eyes fixed on Triss’s heels, and Triss wondered if the priestess had already drawn dozens of lines of inferences and conclusions about what they had been up to.

Aileyn was stock still behind her, and Triss could practically feel the nerves rolling off of her in waves.

“Yes,” Triss replied, then thought quickly to spare the girl of the situation. “Nightmares,” Triss stated purposefully, willing herself to remain expressionless. “I thought to cool down in the famed fountain by the mausoleum but and didn’t know how to find it, so I convinced Aileyn to come with. It is entirely my responsibility that she’s out of bed.”

She thought she heard a sound of protest from the girl, but with a quick glare over her shoulder, Aileyn scowled and zipped her mouth shut.

Hrosvitha peeled her eyes from Aileyn and redirected her stare at Triss’s face. “I see,” she stated after a while, when Triss’s discomfort and irritation had hiked up her throat and her lips had started hurting from the fake smile they were stretched in. “I suppose you have no need of the girl now, then?”

“No,” Triss assured. “I was about to order her back to her quarters.”

“Good,” Hrosvitha said sternly, and pushed past Triss to firmly lead Aileyn towards the bedchambers.

Triss caught the girl’s eyes and sighed, turning to walk on towards the other hallway hurriedly, hoping that Aileyn would not be punished.

“Lady Merigold,” the voice called again, and Triss glanced over her shoulder at the woman with trepidation.

“Yes?”

Hrosvitha’s eyes flashed.

“Next time, please feel free to use the showers instead.”

….

“Blessed be the indifferent,” Mother Nenneke suddenly mused at dinnertime, when Triss was forcing indents into the eggshells and pulling at the membranes with her nimble fingers instead of her clever spells. “Damned be the compassionate?”

Triss slowly placed the boiled egg inside the bucket to her left before sticking a toothpick under her nails to remove the small pieces of albumen.

She did not look at Nenneke, who had been acting like this for the past few days; mysterious and sentences twisted in even more riddles than usual.

“How so?” She asked.

Mother Nenneke’s hands did not falter as she washed the bundles of burdock in the pail. “They were your words, Triss,” she said. “I figured you may know how so.”

Triss frowned. “I never said the last part.”

Mother Nenneke hummed.

“Do you feel damned, child?” She asked after a second or two of their peaceful cooperation around the counter.

The egg had not boiled properly. Triss pressed a thumb just a tad too hard at its bottom and liquid with yolk splashed on her palm.

She cursed, mindless of whose presence she was in, and grabbed the rag to pat arm down. Her frustration was unmistakable.

Triss exhaled with measure. “I feel that I’m about to be imparted with great wisdom and would just loathe to pointlessly delay that, so please, Mother Nenneke, call a spade a spade and let’s cut to it.”

Mother Nenneke blinked at her, unphased by the sarcasm, before resuming chopping her vegetables.

“You are free to seek relief from darkness here, Triss. The great Melitele cares not about where you came from or what weight it is you carry,” she explained, her tone crystal clear and her movements ascertained. “As long as you do not offload it onto the novices, who know neither of blessed nor damned; simply of peace.”

Triss swallowed and looked away. Priestesses and their cursed perspicacity.

“Hrosvitha told you?”

“Aileyn,” Mother Nenneke stated. She rubbed her hands together and lifted the large pot over the furnace without so much as a grunt. “She felt inclined to confess; to what end, I do not know. Company is no crime here, Triss Merigold, but despite what comfort you thought you were offering; I suspect in this instance it may have been so heavy on her it felt like sin.” Mother Nenneke turned to her with severe eyes. “And that I will not allow.”

Triss thought back to the pomade in Aileyn’s hair, and the shine in her eyes. She thought of how much it reminded her of herself when she was just an extension of Tissaia’s hip, and wondered if perhaps her melancholy had poured out of her unwillingly, overwhelming the young girl in the process.

The telltale burning of her eyes became too insistent to ignore and Triss sucked in her cheeks for fear that every emotion she had been bottling up inside would spill and consume her.

Guilt trickled at the stomach – she had never meant to make Aileyn question her own morality for hanging around a broken sorceress.

Anger and irritation were kinder on her stomach however, and so Triss focused on them when she tossed the rag to the counter, tightened her jaw, and walked away.

It was out of begrudging respect that she did not give Mother Nenneke a thorough piece of her mind.

…...

“Let me get this straight, Voymir,” Dijkstra’s voice, calm and even, certainly belied his tightened fist’s seeming inclination to fork the tall soldier through his twitching eye. “I allocate considerable time and resources into funding your risky expedition to Vizima amidst extensive ceasefire discussions, only for you to return and announce that you’ve failed to fulfill the simplest task of locating a single minstrel. Does that about sum up our current predicament?”

“Sir Dijkstra-”

“Pipe down. That was a rhetorical question,” Dijkstra bit at this gum and rubbed at his brow with heavy movements. He felt his clutch at the utensil intensify impossibly. “Better yet, get the fuck out of my sight before I forego skewering the sauerbraten on this plate for something more alive.”

As the soldier scuttled away and out of the room stiffly, Dijkstra bristled for a second longer before taking a long breath and tossing the fork into the vinaigrette.

His appetite had been well and truly spoiled for the evening.

“Phil will not be happy about this…” Dijkstra muttered, trying to think through his next move but finding his attempts hampered by the sudden vision of his own head skewered on the platter instead.

Philippa had done worse for less.

Ori Reuven’s dry wheeze and nasty coughing did nothing for the nausea stirring in his belly.

……

It was almost too easy to spot Keira amongst the crowd at the square in Ellander : no other woman dared wear upper clothing so sparse and strut around the Continent so unbothered by the attention it garnered, save perhaps Sabrina Glevissig, who thrived on it.

Triss rolled her eyes, and told herself it was because Keira flashing her assets at everyone was so utterly over-the-top and largely unnecessary, and not because she herself would never be able to show them off ever again.

“Keira,” Triss murmured in greeting, and was not surprised when the blonde callously turned around without a word and started heading for a remote area behind a block of houses. “Yes, I’ve been doing just swell, thank you for asking. And yourself?”

Keira chuckled. “Come now darling; I thought we were closer than that.”

“Closer than basic polite greetings?”

“Closer than unnecessary greetings.”

Triss hummed, and came to a halt as Keira took a firm seat on top of a stone ledge.

“I’d say I’ve almost missed your frankness, Keira.”

“And I’d say I’ve almost missed your refreshing insights, Triss,” Keira’s eyes slipped to the pouches in Triss’s hands and paused, “though I do not recall bird feeding as one of your areas of expertise?”

Triss cleared her throat and put them away into a larger shopping purse.

Her eyes were carefully blank and resolute when they returned to Keira’s, and any further line of interrogation into that particular matter dissipated within seconds. Keira raised a brow, but promptly let it go.

“So are you settling in at the Temple?” She finally asked, picking at her nails in boredom. “Found your true calling as a solitary nun?”

“Can’t say I’ve not considered it, once or twice…” at Keira’s responding incredulous moue, Triss laughed. “Relax. I’m afraid I’m too incorrigible, even for a Goddess,” she sighed. “Moreover, the priestesses have grown as weary of me as I have of them. It’s a good thing I’m to depart soon.”

“What, depressed nymphos not good enough for Melitele?” Keira scoffed.

“Is it just me, or are you mildly projecting?”

“It _is_ just you. I am hardly depressed.”

“But you are nymphomaniac.” Triss pointed out, quirking a brow.

"As if you aren't?" Keira’s leer broke out on her face predatorily. “You forget I’ve seen you drunk, little Merigold… oh the obscenities you let loose-”

“What is the purpose of this meeting, Keira?” Triss hastily asked, cutting through the development of that no doubt lewd sentence.

Keira regarded her leisurely before speaking again.

“Do you remember Essi Daven?”

“What?” Triss probed at her gums with her tongue, narrowing her eyes at Keira.

“Essi Daven,” Keira stated, tilting her head. Her eyes appeared suddenly much sharper. “The popular poet who died in Vizima from smallpox; we couldn’t get to her in time.”

Essi Daven. Little Eye.

Triss did remember; news of the poet’s death had made the rounds while Keira and Triss were handling the main city’s bout of sickness. She remembered plenty of the dead from that time.

How could she ever forget?

“Yes,” she confirmed, “I do.”

“And do you remember whom she was rumored to be involved with?”

Triss scoffed and shook her head exasperatedly. “Keira, what-”

“Do you remember?” Keira pressed.

“No,” Triss rubbed at her brow in resignation. “No I don’t remember because I never knew. I was too preoccupied with saving a few thousand lives at the time, lest you neglected to take that small detail into account?”

“A good friend of hers,” Keira ignored her and explained further. “Another famed bard, by the name of Jaskier.”

Triss paused. She looked down at Keira with a curious glance. “Jaskier,” she began slowly. “Yes, I am familiar with him.”

They had met in Cidaris, during the bards’ festival, and after some of the most taxing weeks Triss had ever had to endure in her lifetime. It had not been much longer after leaving Oxenfurt (and cunning, dark brown eyes) behind.

She had expected to die of boredom and unease at the festival where she was supposed to be making noise about Temeria’s recovery, but she had found Jaskier’s company relatively pleasurable, and his incessant boyish charms somewhat captivating.

They had bonded over the experience in Vizima; Jaskier had buried his friend and Triss had buried all her youthful optimism.

They had also exchanged anecdotes regarding a certain witcher; Triss had to fight off the fond smile threatening to overtake.

Keira nodded. Her eyes were unreadable, and Triss was about to inquire as to how that could be relevant to literally anything of even marginal significance when Keira spoke again, voice unnaturally harsh.

“What the hell does the Redanian Secret Service want with him?”

Triss blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“Triss,” though her face carried a toothful grin, Keira’s voice was deep, a sugar-coated warning as she rose from the stone. “I am not a very patient person by nature. Lately, I’ve been stretching it quite thin with all of this secrecy surrounding my very own kingdom, so you’ll excuse me if I don’t particularly feel like needlessly repeating myself.”

“What are you talking about?” Triss asked, frustrated. “How in the bloody damnation would I know of anything Redania wants with anyone?”

“Redanian spies came to Vizima in August. They were searching for him, asking all sorts of questions about him to the locals,” Keira placed her hands on her hips irritably. Triss briefly wondered how she wasn’t steadily freezing to death from the chilly gusts of wind. “Apparently, he had just fled the capital, not a minute sooner than when he had been absolutely certain he would unfortunately not find _you_ there.”

“Me?” Triss guffawed in disbelief and suspicion. “Are you jesting, Keira?”

“Does it look like I’m laughing?”

Triss let out a befuddled huff and wrestled with the locks of hair falling on her face. “I sort of wish you were.”

“Am I seriously to believe that you have not the slightest clue of what this could possibly mean?”

She hoped her eyes were as cutting as she meant them to be when they snapped to Keira’s.

“I’m sorry, would you find it more plausible that somewhere between bird-feeding at the gardens and flower-picking with princess Adda in the Temple I immersed myself in a grand conspiracy involving the Redanian Secret Service and a troubadour?”

Keira exhaled tersely. “I find it plausible, Triss, that you have not been entirely honest with me. That perhaps you know of far more about what is happening to the Brotherhood than you initially let on. First you disappear for an unreasonable amount of time in Brugge, then Fercart starts opposing you as if you took a piss in his mead, and now some overrated, obnoxious bard desperately searches for you in Vizima while being hounded by Redanian emissaries!” She exclaimed loudly.

Triss pursed her lips and averted her eyes. When put like that; it truly did sound as if she were part of an ongoing questionable political scheme.

When she replied with silence, Keira sighed. “You spent time with Philippa after Sodden, Triss. If she said something to you…”

Triss scoffed and busily ran a hand through the top of her hair. “What does Philippa have to do with anything?”

“And you ask if _I’m_ jesting. Has perhaps the incense from the Temple interfered with your brain functions?” Keira hissed. “We’re discussing the Redanian intelligence department. Philippa Eilhart has everything to do with everything in that regard.”

The breeze around them was unabated. Triss clutched at her shawl tightly, and pinched at the bridge of her nose even more so.

“Keira, I told you, I’m as much in the dark as you are about anything that is transpiring in the Brotherhood. As for Jaskier… what if this is purely a matter of Redanian internal affairs? It would not be the first time spies cross the borders.”

Keira rolled her eyes. “I never paid much notice in class, Triss, but if a fugitive of the Redanian law is searching out a sorceress on the Royal Council of _Temeria,_ I’m fairly certain the whole affair qualifies as the exact opposite of a ‘purely internal’ matter.”

Triss bit her lip. “Maybe he wasn’t aware he was being followed. Maybe he just…”

Maybe he just wanted to see her. But why would he? Triss had not met with that man in years, and she was barely even his acquaintance; much less intimate enough to warrant seeking her out across the Continent.

“Gods - he fled the capital before they tracked him. Emphasis on _fled,_ darling _.”_

“Perhaps your source was mistaken. I can’t fathom why he was asking after me. It doesn’t make any sense."

Keira crossed her arms. “What doesn’t make sense is that you expect me to buy into this faux-innocence charade. I thought you were smarter than to assume so little of someone whose proficiency lies in extracting information.”

It seemed Triss struggled out of one mess just to be unwillingly hauled into another.

“Keira-”

“Save it.”

Unduly composed, and looking for all intents and purposes as if absolutely nothing had occurred between them, Keira patted down her almost non-existent clothing and made to walk away.

It seemed the priceless ability to remain aloof and collected throughout anything was a talent only Triss had yet to acquire among her kin.

“She told me not to trust anyone.” Triss rushed to offer; anything, a small olive branch of a confession. She could not possibly handle losing grips with Keira, too.

When the blonde turned to her, her stare was laden with contempt and something strange, a shimmer that Triss could not quite identify.

“And did it ever occur to you, Triss,” Keira emphasized , “that _anyone_ ought to include Philippa herself?”  
  


…..

“You rush.”

“I must,” she murmured, grasping the wandering palm and squeezing it gently.

“Do not appease me, Triss,” the girl whispered after an intense moment of simply staring up into Triss’s eyes. “I am not a fool.”

Triss shifted and sighed softly. “No you are not.”

Aileyn rose from her chair, a bittersweet exhalation escaping through her lips.

“If you will,” she started, and her eyes were weighty on the packed bags by Triss’s feet, “write to me.”

Triss nodded, but found she could not force a smile on her lips no matter how hard she tried. Nenneke’s deliberate stares were seared into the back of her mind. This was not a role Triss would ever be adequate for; shattered and overused as she was.

 _Was this what it felt like for Yennefer?_ Triss looked away.

“I will,” she pledged, though she very well knew the promise was as empty as she was.

…...

Carpan cracked his fingers and licked his lips, leaning against the post with the ease of a man who’d had a job well done and money well-earned.

“Were there any troubles?” The tall, broad-shouldered man asked, face hidden beneath the hood. Carpan itched to hitch it back, but stood still. This dangerous trade had taught him some things were better left unrevealed.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle. Don’t fret,” he twirled the small stick between his teeth as he regarded the stranger with scrutiny. “As far as the kingdoms are concerned, the White Wolf’s been camped near Buina on business for the past month.”

“Hmm,” the man hummed. His voice was incredibly deep. “And subtlety; did you handle that?”

Carpan laughed. Clearly this stranger did not know of what a professional he had hired.

“Of course,” he sneered. “I’m not some lowlife amateur. Only if people prod will they hear of the witcher’s supposed stay at Kaedwen.”

Another hum. Then, the man procured a purse full of golden crowns, and dropped it into Carpan’s eager hands.

He appreciated the currency; he had worried an outsider might try to bargain a way into offering cheaper coin. He would have to return to mainland to store it away, but he was hardly in a hurry. Gelibol seemed plenty good for work so far.

The stranger wore no medallion, and he had no sword, but a young girl trudged behind him, and so it could not have been the White Wolf himself.

What mutated freak traveled with a child? None that Carpan had read about.

And thus, not for the first time since they first struck a deal weeks ago, Carpan watched them leave, and pondered; who the hell would want to protect a witcher?

……

The hall was enormous, and at the other end of it there was a tall window pane from floor almost to ceiling, dim moonlight streaming through the stained glass in abstract shapes and patterns.

Philippa remained still and imperial in front of it, her head tipped back and eyes fluttered closed as the outlines of the illustrated maenad’s mantle cast blue and golden shadows on the floor around and behind her.

This empty building had stood out to Triss for reasons unbeknownst to her. Perhaps her time at the Temple had truly created a taste for archaic architecture; or perhaps there was simply a certain quality about the task she had undertaken which necessitated obscurity.

Outside, faraway booms of thunder echoed portentously, and the wind was howling. They were well within winter now; three months of fortifying her bones and amassing the nerve to come here.

Yet, when Triss stepped down the long corridor, eyes fixed on Philippa’s keen posture, her resolve traitorously leaped up to her throat, wont to desert her within seconds. She tightened her jaw and forced it back down.

“I’d as lief have welcomed you into the Court,” the hoarse timbre sounded, the jut of Philippa’s chin razor-sharp against the backdrop of light when she turned slightly over her shoulder, “had you deigned to reveal yourself to me.”

Triss advanced only a little more before stopping to wring her hands together. She stared at Philippa’s back; the long gown clinging to her lithe form and the tresses pouring down her back in their customary ponytail.

She bit her lip and held her ground.

“Pardon my elusiveness, Philippa,” said Triss. “It was not so long ago that I was warned not to cede my trust easily.”

A sound small and amused twisted out of Philippa’s lips and when she turned around, her eyes were nitid with conspicuous hauteur.

“Sage advice,” she smirked, palms clasped behind her back. Her head was tilted at such an imperceptible angle that Triss recognized she was being diligently measured up.

Triss flattened her tongue against her molars and bit back a scathing remark.

“This is not a social visit,” she stated. Her eyes were harsh.

Philippa’s eyes glinted, looking like she might have wanted to move closer but thought better of it. When she spoke again, her gaze was directed at the golden sconces on the wall.

“This is hardly a visit at all,” she taunted. She lifted a thumb and a forefinger and a single flickering flame leapt up, before Philippa inched towards a candlestick and let the spark latch onto the wick.

Triss did not ponder on why she felt so unperturbed by watching her practice fire magic.

“Sending a kid to me at the castle’s bailey as if we’re off to plot an uprising. I don’t appreciate being made to look questionable in front of the royals, Triss.”

Triss controlled the surge of satisfaction in her chest and mentally noted instead to locate the boy later and hand him a fistful more of crowns.

“Quite the contrary, Philippa,” Triss murmured, soft smile stretching on her lips, “my intentions were solely to safeguard, not tarnish your reputation.”

“Is that so?” Philippa asked and propped the pad of her thumb where the flame had licked the skin against her tongue to soothe the sting.

“Of course.” Triss assured. She watched Philippa closely for a second before walking closer to the warped and colorful shadows on the floor. “It would just not do to have King Vizimir overhear about the unsanctioned operations you’ve been running in Temerian grounds, would it not?”

Despite Philippa’s no doubt best efforts, Triss caught the flash of danger in her eyes, the stiffness in her posture. Philippa’s lips were tugged into a nonchalant sneer, but her stare was deadly in its intensity.

“Be careful, young one,” she uttered slowly, “to a stranger's ears that would have sounded almost like a threat.”

“And to an acquaintance’s?”

Philippa laughed. “Oh is that what we are?” Then, before Triss could reply, she continued. “It sounded to me like an unfortunate lapse in judgment.”

Triss hummed. She stared at the candle burning next to them and then the way the orange light twirled over Philippa’s unblemished skin and dark eyes.

In that moment, with sharp shadows cast behind her features, Philippa appeared more majestic and formidable than King Vizimir ever had.

“I fear you Philippa,” she confessed, sudden and honest, because unforeseen candor was the only weapon she could safely deploy against someone so invincible as the other woman. “And we both know I would not dare go against your word on my own,” she watched as Philippa’s brow lifted marginally, “but you mistake me for a fool.”

She paused, and then with a flourish of her fingers, the fire perished. A nifty trick Vanielle had taught her in simpler times, before Triss’s name had been fashioned on a gravestone and her teacher lay motionless and littered with arrows.

“And even the tame will eventually bite back if knocked around enough,” she finished, pinning Philippa with a resolute stare and refusing to let on.

Philippa’s face was indecipherable, bathed in darkness.

“What is it that you seek here, Triss?” She asked, tone unnaturally even and stripped of any warmth, just like the lonesome candle at their side.

How sweeping it felt, to have scuffed back the layers of pretense and drilled through the surface to glimpse into Philippa’s raw matter, even for a moment.

But that was all it took; a split second for Triss to stare into her eyes and confirm how that woman whose touch had been so studious and acute a year ago was equal parts a construct as she had ever been a fragment of reality.

Triss dug her nails into the creases of her inner palm and pursed her lips.

“Answers.”

…..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a small side note : I doubt it's easy to tell, but I wanted this conversation between Philippa and Triss to mirror in some ways the very first conversation they held in Chapter 1. If one were to go back and read that chapter, I think they'd spot a lot of the callbacks in this one - and perhaps all the ways in which Triss has changed.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Would it kill you,” she snapped, lip curled over her teeth, “to offer without conditions, just this once, Philippa?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's embarrassing how long I have been mulling and fretting over and mollycoddling this chapter, like it's my only child. 
> 
> thank you so much if you have read this work in its full length. 
> 
> it has been an absolute pleasure to write it.

**Bowline**

_“And the Good Book said unto us;  
_ _  
[...]  
  
Hell hath no fury like a sorceress scorned.”_

**- _P. 1, Ch. I: ‘Prithee, Witch, ‘Ave Mercy!’, Pocketbook for Merchants,_ Oxenfurt Academy  
(c. 1255)**

......

  
**I. Winter  
**

It was evident that it would be a dreadful night to spend away from the warmth of a comfortable bed and the promise of a hot meal, yet Philippa found herself shivering in anticipation within the empty monastery all the same.

The guard who had granted her entrance had been less than eager to cooperate – Philippa did wonder if she had ever met a man more cross-grained than him, and she had met a few. He had clearly been handed instructions by Triss however; a question to ask (‘How should one endeavour to heal spinal irritation?’ – crafty, Philippa thought, and obediently listed lice and worms) and a signal, if something seemed odd.

It was a small miracle on its own that Triss had managed to bargain with him. Philippa wondered what it was that he had been promised in return; perhaps a short vacation from this forsaken place?

Triss's choice of scenery was nothing short of a mystery to her; Coppertown had always been unwelcome to strangers and this derelict clump of stone on top of the hill was no different.

The only source of light was the steady shine of moonbeams filtering through the glasswork at the end of the room. The imagery was of a ravishing maenad weaving an ivy-wreath around her hair, vines cross-stitched with petals. Her thyrsus was laid down on the ground and springs of wine surrounded her.

The wind was howling almost maniacally, and Philippa watched drizzling rain trickle down the maenad’s form impassively.

She seemed extremely out of place there. Too lively and more suited to the forefront of an exposition in Toussaint rather than the back wall of a pillaged abbey.

Though the monastery had been abandoned decades ago, as betrayed by the chipped and dusty scagliola on the pillars, the piece of art on the window pane had been maintained almost spotless and pristine - no doubt by the hardworking miners who were living most of their days without the solace of a woman in their arms.

She supposed there was an irony somewhere in the fact that Triss had asked for _her_ in a place like this : it used to be so consecrated and divine, when Philippa had always been all but that.

There was an irony somewhere in the fact that Philippa had so effortlessly granted the request, too, but she opted not to delve into that.

The sound of Triss's heels shifting against gravel as she stalked towards one of the row of pews echoed around them ominously. It was a sudden movement; abrupt against the inertia that had seemingly filled the space in the last stretch of long and silent minutes between them.

Philippa carefully turned her eyes on her. 

“Well?” Triss prodded. Her eyebrows had hiked up curiously. “You're awfully silent, Philippa.”

Philippa's temper fluttered, but she kept her hands tightly clasped behind her and her posture eased.

“What is there to say?” She asked, eyes flashing. “You call for answers, though you've not yet asked any questions. How awfully entitled.”

There was plenty a response in Triss's eyes despite the short silence which followed. White hot irritation was eddying around the bright loops in her irises. 

Triss shook her head, an unimpressed hum of icy laughter escaping her lips. It was a deformed sound, as if she had been an agelast all her life, forced to laugh for the first time right then and there, unnerving and unimpassioned.

Iciness was the only appropriate description to use for Triss's disposition; she had plunged the entire room in inconsolable frigidness with it.

It served Triss well, to feel annoyed if only for a second, as Philippa did when a child hurled itself at her robes in front of the King and asked that she meet an anonymous benefactor – as if Philippa was leading a group of covert nihilists in the making.

As if Triss was a benefactor and not an increasingly alarming source of troubles.

At the sight of Philippa's smirk, all hints of amusement, disingenuous or not, were swiftly wiped from Triss's face.

“Why the inn?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Brugge,” Triss stared intently at her. “Why did we spend the night at the inn, after Sodden?”

Philippa clicked her tongue against her teeth, tilted her head and delivered what was intended to be an exceptionally sardonic look.

“Their hotchpotch was to die for.”

Triss's answering glare was withering. Philippa sensed the emotions rolling off of her – a steadily simmering stockpot of frustration and discontent.

“Don't patronize me,” she bit out, her voice coarse as emery cloth. Her hands were curled into small fists.

Philippa glanced at them for a second and stared Triss down again.

“Then do not insult my intellect,” she responded in kind, pleased to see Triss flinch at her cruel tone. “Have you come across the country to pussyfoot around your requests, Triss? Drop the inane questions and cut to the chase.”

“Please,” Triss stated, voice indignant. “I know you visited King Venzlav's court, and you were offered lodgings in the castle. Yet you opted for that old howff anyways. Tell me why.”

Philippa curled her upper lip and looked away, over her shoulder and out the window.

That was knowledge too frail to share with her; though the tension weighing down on Triss's shoulders and the stormy resolve in her voice indicated that their time apart – doused in secrecy and uncertainty – had not been without its casualties. 

There was very little of the Triss Merigold she had conversed with in Nimnar which had remained intact after the Hill.

It was a plaintive feeling clawing at her chest, though she was not sure of what it was she was mourning.

Perhaps that Triss had lost and changed so much, and even though it was what Philippa had initially encouraged, what she had urged her to do with her unctuous words and careful prods, she found the fruits of her own efforts tasted bitter.

She remembered listening to Sabrina browbeat the healers about their reckless practices and the looming threat of a pulmonary infection, lamenting the likelihood of Triss surviving another night in Sodden, and hollowed her cheeks slightly in apprehension.

Philippa thought of her huddled and quivering in a pool of blood-stained sheets, hands yanking frantically at the linen shirt chafing over her burnt marks as Tissaia struggled to hold her down.

How much more casualty could she allow?

“The Court has ears,” she offered, gaze still off of Triss, “and many, many eyes. The attention I would have garnered with you on my arm was undesirable.”

Triss hummed pensively. Under different circumstances, the gaze she was pinning Philippa with would have meant something else entirely.

Right then and there it could only indicate imprudent condescension.

“Almost as undesirable as jeopardizing the monopoly over any intelligence he had to present, no doubt.”

Philippa peered at her strangely. “You’ve always assumed the worst of me.”

“You don’t exactly leave me a choice,” Triss remarked, picking at non-existent dirt underneath her fingernails. She looked neat and immaculate as always; even if this building was not filthy and stripped of all its murals and ornamentation, it would not hold a candle to the two of them. “Alas, I’m not interested in _what_ he told you. In fact, I wager I already know.”

“You don’t say,” Philippa deadpanned.

“Yes, I do,” Triss nodded and sighed airily. “I am a Temerian advisor, after all. It is my responsibility to keep abreast of the vassal state’s political ambitions,” she paused. “You could have asked me about Brokilon.”

Philippa tilted her head and smiled innocuously.

“It must have slipped my mind.”

“Or perhaps you were well aware that I would have received the watered down version of that riveting tale of negotiation,” Triss continued, ignoring Philippa’s quip. “Perhaps you were more keen on the details... the exact date of the occurrence, the dialogue… Hm. Maybe the identity of the negotiators themselves?”

Philippa laughed. She nodded along and lifted her hands to sound a tiny clap.

“Insightful,” Philippa praised mockingly. “Though incredibly limited in your creativity. Perhaps I meant to organize a banquet by the Ribbon, or perhaps I hoped to accomplish my lifelong aspiration of becoming a dryad. The possibilities are endless…”

Triss’s eyes narrowed before she clicked her tongue. Her expression was more sour than the over-fermented pulque served in prisons.

“And does that long-term plan of action happen to involve a troubadour, too? I admit, I fail to see how he may be of use in your new life as a forest-dweller.”

The humor gradually subsided and in its place, Philippa commanded silence.

She had accounted for the likelihood of Triss finding out about Jaskier, though she had anticipated it would be low. She could also not rule out with absolute certainty that Triss would not eventually dig deeper into the Brokilon matter from a few years ago; Philippa herself had only grown interested after finding out during the days of Triss’s recovery that Fercart of Cidaris had held his own inquiries there some months prior to the battle.

Though that had largely been a waste of her time : all she managed to glean from her very private conversation with the highfalutin King Venzlav was that Eithné had been extremely uncooperative during the negotiations, and the King suspected that was because the negotiator’s skills were subpar and not his first selection for the mission.

Apparently, his first choice had been the witcher Geralt of Rivia, Yennefer’s cherished pet mutant (oh the travesty – when the rumors had first made the rounds, Philippa had almost wanted to vomit on site), who had not gone to Brokilon.

Philippa had had no clue at the time as to why that would be of any significance to Fercart – or to anyone, for that matter; Geralt of Rivia looked to her as if he’d speak in monosyllables and growls, like an underdeveloped mountain ape, and as if he’d smell of tonsil stones and kikimora meconium – but she knew better than to dismiss the reports.

It had been certain that this Brotherhood was infested within, from Vilgefortz’s suspicious movements in Sodden to Stregobor’s refusal to fight and Fercart’s apparent alliance with the former. Philippa was going to uncover the conspiracy if it were the last thing she’d do.

It was only nearly a year later that their moles at the front lines had recounted something of significance : the Lion Cub of Cintra had allegedly been sighted in the refugee camps – and that shifted the entire focus of their efforts.

It was also why they had been so eager to locate Jaskier – he knew far more than he let on.

Either way, Triss was intelligent and perceptive; it would not take long for her to connect the dots between the bard and the witcher, and Philippa could not afford an independent investigation interfering with her own.

She sighed.

She would have to yield _something,_ if she were to safeguard everything.

“He is under Dijkstra’s payroll,” Philippa waved her hand in a dismissive motion. “Recently he’s been rather indolent with his work. We tracked him to Temeria and attempted to apprehend him there.”

Triss’s eyes bulged.

“Jaskier?” She asked incredulously. “A Redanian spy?”

Philippa swiftly schooled the inquisitiveness on her face. “You are familiar with him?”

It was Triss’s slip-up – she was only so young and inexperienced in delicate diplomacy such as this, but her expression morphed into one of fleeting regret before smoothing out into blankness again.

So she _did_ know him. Interesting.

“What could Redania possibly gain from the employment of a common bard?”

Philippa grinned again, this time a bit more sinister around the corner of her lips, the spitting image of a cat that got the canary.

“And whatever could a royal advisor of King Foltest gain by asking after him? Questions, questions…”

Triss huffed and looked away, her thumb fiddling with the ring on her finger anxiously.

It was cobalt-tinted tungsten carbide, the type only found in proximity to Mahakam, matching the rich colour of her dress underneath her cloak. As if that would facilitate blending in.

One glance at the picturesquely tangled crown of curly hair she carried on her head would suffice to reveal her true status.

“I understand. A quid-pro-quo,” she cleared her throat and fixed Philippa with a firm look.

Philippa said nothing.

Triss’s voice was quieter when she spoke again. “I am almost ashamed to admit that Fercart of Cidaris intimidates me. He has been hostile towards both Keira Metz and myself, to the point that he has been consistently calling my advice into question in front of the whole Council.”

Philippa pondered on this for a moment.

“Is it the challenge that intimidates you?”

Triss shook her head. “More the fact that it is backed by someone far more influential than both of us.”

The pause was meant to be suspenseful, and Philippa pretended not to have already realized what Triss was about to divulge.

“Vilgefortz.”

Philippa dutifully quirked an eyebrow and crossed her arms over her chest. The coolness of the room was only intensifying as the night progressed; she desperately wished they could have held this conversation ensconced in the heat of her personal quarters.

They were treading muddy waters with this discussion. The rancour Triss would hold against her for what followed was not to be underestimated.

“I see,” she replied. “And do you have any proof to substantiate this claim?”

“Hardly,” Triss muttered. “But I believe Fercart persuaded King Foltest to send me to the Temple of Melitele for the duration of the armistice negotiations; so that he could do his bidding unworried, without prying eyes on him.”

Philippa hummed.

The true question lay elsewhere.

“Are you mistrustful of Vilgefortz?”

“I am mistrustful of Fercart; and Vilgefortz by association,” Triss corrected. She sighed and threaded her fingers on top of her knees cautiously. Triss had always stood on pins and needles around her; Philippa questioned whether the passage of time would steadily coax that habit out of her or if it would never truly go away at all.

“Vilgefortz saved me at the Hill,” Triss resumed, but it was reluctance, not gratefulness carved out on her features. “He has given me no reason to suspect him, yet the mere mention of his name causes me discomfort.”

And therein was the glaring issue; Triss was not aware that it had not been his purpose to save her. He had found her by the oak tree incidentally, after crossing the battlefield for reasons unbeknownst to anyone.

Similarly unspecified reasons were most probably to blame for the fact that he had failed to intervene with two waves of attack on the western flank and had been in dubious proximity to the death of one of their young mages in the forest.

Philippa pursed her lips and glanced at Triss under heavy eyelashes.

She had never felt sheepish once in the course of her life – not a concept she was at all acquainted with – but Philippa gathered that it must feel a little bit like this; circumspect and wont to digress from the conversation because Triss’s eyes were rapidly growing confused and her body was strained dangerously.

Yet Philippa would not stray.

She was not one to run from her problems.

“Vilgefortz’s movements are unaccounted for across the span of at least three hours during the heat of battle,” she finally explained carefully. “You would not be irrational to suspect him.”

She observed the way Triss’s forehead creased as she processed the information – then the tell-tale sign of fury pulling her lips taut.

Whatever momentary civility had existed between them minutes ago disappeared in an instant; Philippa practically saw it dim in the depths of Triss’s eyes.

Outside, thunder soared forebodingly.

“And what was it precisely that stopped you from telling me this a year ago?” Triss demanded, tone irate. Her stance had shifted from somewhat relaxed to unbelievably tense within seconds. “Fear of me asking too many...” Triss wet her lips in ersatz contemplation, “...inane questions?”

“Fear?” Philippa repeated cynically and lifted a brow. “Don’t make me laugh.”

“Ugh!” Triss exclaimed, slapping the wide of her palm against the wood. “You are impossible!”

As she was draped over the pew and obscured in long shadows, Triss’s eyes were shining brightly in determination, and it was a sight as much to behold as it was one to promptly intervene with.

She had never thought of Triss as a peril lurking in darkness; a quiet force to be reckoned with, growing in size and intensity as time hurried along. But that was exactly what she was embodying at the moment – an unpredictable player on a game of chess Philippa had invested too much in to endanger.

Her volatility would not do – not when the cogs were put in motion and all the pieces were set.

“Exactly who do you think you are Triss?”

Triss was fidgeting with the ring on her finger again. Her mouth was a narrow press and her stare was condemning. When she spoke, her voice was vacant and bereft of its customary mellowness.

“I am someone who's grown tired, Philippa,” she expressed heatedly, slowly rising from her seat and moving closer, “of walking into Court every day unsure of whom to trust and whom to fend off, second-guessing everything I speak of for fear that I may be inadvertently setting off a series of political altercations and obscured traps.”

Her grey cloak was billowing behind her, and her hands were tightened. In measured strides, she reduced the space between them to nothing.

Philippa inhaled deeply; breathfuls of musty air and the heady aroma of vanilla cream and… piloncillo – Triss must have visited a Redanian bakery earlier.

It was a peculiar detail to pick up on; too menial and domestic for Philippa’s liking, and she discarded it at once.

But that aroma, vanilla and evening primrose, it was the same scent which had lingered on some of the bandages Philippa had packed with her after she left Brugge. She had not checked recently, but she was sure if she were to unlace it, her rucksack would smell still of green apples, expired doses of tonics and the unmistakable essence of Triss Merigold.

“I am weary of being left in the dark about what is happening in this damned Brotherhood, and I am _sick_ of your perfunctory warnings and your elusive responses,” Triss spat. “You claim you are not the enemy, and that you are not the worst of my concerns, yet all my troubles seem to circle back to you.”

Her finger found the top of Philippa's gown, wiggling in palpable accusation.

“You give with one hand and take with the other, but how is that trade off any fair when what I receive leaves me with more problems than solutions?”

And what had it left Philippa with?

Endless questions at the Redanian court, poorly worded inquiries and warnings from Dijkstra, and complicated issues to confront.

She thought to tell Triss that any trade off whatsoever had been of middling quality for her too, but bewilderment overtook the will to sympathize. 

“Fairness, Triss, really?” Philippa scoffed and laughed harshly. “Don't be absurd. You are a sorceress stationed at a Royal Council; I told you before, if you expected life to be fair and easy-going I'm afraid you've ran your course in this line of business.”

Triss huffed and shook her head tersely. There was a disbelieving frown playing at her brows.

“Would it kill you,” she snapped, lip curled over her teeth, “to offer without conditions, just this once, Philippa?”

It was becoming of her, this rage. It sent her eyes blazing and a ruddy colour flushed up her cheeks. Philippa had seen her this way – so alive and ready to shed layers of skin to accommodate the brewing emotions – only once before.

Were she not feeling equally irritated by the whole exchange, Philippa might have felt inclined to reminisce : the visions of Triss’s hands frantically twisting the sheets and the throaty hums of her voice were crisp on her mind.

Were she not feeling so frustrated with Triss’s holier than thou attitude – so unseemly and pathetically conceited for a sorceress – it would be so simple to cast all caution to the wind. To pin Triss to the wall and proceed to examine just how far down that furious flush had spread; how much further it _could_ spread, if afforded proper care.

But the glaring wounds were scraped raw and ugly in Triss’s eyes; melee and gaping loneliness most apparent there, and she knew that what Triss sought to be offered without conditions was not something Philippa possessed. 

Triss narrowed her eyes as if to rid it of the turmoil and spoke slowly and intently, changing tactics. 

“What does Vilgefortz want from the Brotherhood? Why is Fercart so hellbent on pushing me away from my King? And what is it that has you so on edge about Jaskier that you were willing to release Redanian agents into Temerian grounds to find him?”

Philippa wasfeeling just as exasperated as Triss was showing – and she quickly tired of the endless torrent of questions levelled at her.

_Enough._

Philippa felt her ire spike and leaned in suddenly and assertively.

She saw Triss's puzzled eyes, heard the hitch of her breath and the following sigh, and the reverberations rang in the cavity of her traitorous chest until Philippa forced them mute with iron resolve.

“I am a sorceress, not a charity act,” she warned deliberately, voice low. “Conditions come with the territory. Take it or leave it.”

The stillness stretched and settled over seemingly everything in the room. The moon was partially reflected off of Triss’s dark orbs when they glared at hers, and Philippa was dismayed to find her own jaw was clenched tightly shut, the struggle to maintain all of her composure nearly obvious.

She had known for all her lengthy life that time was of the essence; a luxury to keep track of and expend wisely – but right there, from where Triss’s eyes were darting between her own to where Philippa’s fingers were itching for _something,_ time was inconsequential.

As inconsequential as the bits of dust motes suspended in the air between them, as meaningless as the rain framing the maenad’s face on the stained glass and the sound of creaking furniture in the empty hall.

It was nearly as irrelevant as the resident ache and want peering through the rage in Triss’s stare should have been, but Philippa had sworn she would never be her own deceiver.

There would be a cost to pretending that it did not matter; that she could disregard its presence as easily as a King disregards his soldiers and the chess player disregards his pawns.

Triss exhaled, and when she did, her eyes lost their luster and their fire, as if the pain she had been holding onto was all that had insufflated them with life, and Philippa had cruelly stripped her of that, too. 

She twisted her lips resentfully as she said : “Save your false dichotomy,” and when she took a step back, the decaying hall appeared to Philippa all of a sudden unreasonably large. “I will manage without you, as I have done time and again.”

Time had caught on and the distance between them had redoubled; Triss’s physical walking away was only accessory to the fact. She spared only a glance over her shoulder before making her way to the main gate. Her shoulders were set and her cloak wafted behind her in tandem with the ferocity of her steps.

Philippa released a measured breath and watched the retreating form, eyebrows furrowed.

In what appeared to have become the defining characteristic of their dynamic, she promptly felt the will to rope her back in and keep her within her sights, but let her go instead, drifting further away like a lonely rowboat carried out of reach by the sweeping currents.

Doubtful and fit only to speculate as to how much of the Triss Merigold she hitherto thought she knew would return to her next time.

…….

Two whistles and a trill; Philippa gave it some time before calmly exiting the postern of the temple, fingers already half forming a spell and eyes narrowed in concentration. Blackness was viscous and draping menacingly over the workers’ settlements – Philippa could barely make out the eaves and gables of their wooden roofs despite her high vantage point. 

It was freezing and the wind was unabated, giving some life to an otherwise torpid night, an otherwise silent night – _too_ silent, Philippa thought, and slowly took a few steps down the overused path, keeping an eye open for any sight of Triss’s mare.

But she was nowhere to be seen; and neither was the man who had sounded the alarm. Whatever Triss had offered him was clearly not generous enough to extend his duties beyond tuneless hooting and typical cowardice.

Philippa swiftly descended on even ground, thanking her foresight for the dark hue of her gown. She was most likely as invisible as anything else within a mile’s radius. But with the aid of her magic, she could see further, better.

She could see a couple of stray cats harassing a mouse by the corner of a hut, jumping at it from all sides with their paws outstretched and their nails snatching at the gravel within an inch of its tail, hissing and whining ferociously at it.

Philippa refocused; by one of the settlements a glow was flickering within a lantern, and a scrawny old man rocked his chair back and forth by it, calloused fingers tying a gallows knot on a hook. His hand moved up and round and left to right – in overhand loops and other tricks of the humble art, but his unfocused eyes were staring up, towards her direction.

He could not possibly have taken notice of her, of course; she was too far away for his fogged eyesight, but Philippa moved anyways, seeking refuge in the shadows once more.

She stretched her ears, flattening her back to the wall of an abandoned tavern, and stood motionless for several moments, as quiet as the grave. From underneath a fold in her dress she wrapped her nimble fingertips around the hilt of a dagger – a small, compact knife with a needle-like tip, forged and cut out for the sort of unsavoury affairs to be handled in obscurity and silence.

For a while there was nothing – only drapes of darkness and strong wind and the distinct lonesomeness of a harsh winter’s midnight : a ghostly, elusive harmony that could only ever signal looming _dis_ harmony.

Philippa had always had an ear for it – it was after all, an occupational hazard – so when the twig snapped in two and the cats’ hisses grew distant, and the mouse made itself scarce, and the rhythmic creaking of the miner’s chair lost a beat, she dropped to a squat and her arm shot out the edge of the wall almost mechanically.

It caught on hard fabric; an unnaturally high-pitched, throaty cry cracked against the oppressive muteness which had fallen upon them, and Philippa immediately bent her elbow only to strike again as she sprang up. A palm wrapped swiftly around her wrist; the offending limb attempted to bow her tendon out of shape and Philippa cursed under her breath at the flash of pain before slamming her other hand on what could have been a wide chest or an incredibly toned stomach, directing her energy towards it and sending the unknown body tumbling backwards.

She heard the urgent shuffle of clothing on hard soil before she could pinpoint it with her enhanced sight – and dodged the next attack only barely. Whoever this agile offender was, he was precise and he was skilled, but he was not a sorcerer; elsewise he would have already retaliated with a nifty spell.

Risking it with this conjecture as her fuel, Philippa leaned into the next assault; she tried to half pivot away from the fist but came up short against a blunt blade whose evident purpose was to seriously maim, not kill. She yelped in pain – it nicked her ribs nastily but the small loss was worth it for the intended result.

The man, grabbing at the collar of her gown and readying another strike, left his lower abdomen expose and Philippa crashed her elbow against it while hissing the words to an incapacitation spell at the same time.

It took all her strength and then some, and left her shorn of her magical sight, but she sensed his grip loosening and pirouetted in time to hear him falling backwards with a strangled groan.

She snarled and followed him suit, and with all the unforgiving force of gravity, pushed her knee on his groin and her knife through his shoulder, like a deadly pushpin anchoring his upper body to the ground.

He wiggled futilely – the incapacitation was settling in for good, and Philippa’s lips curled downwards when she realized it would be harder to drag his full bodyweight to the light, but she would manage.

It was humorous how he stared at the dagger jutting out his shoulder in absolute despair and devastated fear, but mostly it was risibly misguided.

It was _her_ he should be cowering at the sight of, because she was the true lethal force behind it, and despite all her soft curves and silky garments, she was much sharper, too.

“Well now,” Philippa leaned down and purred languorously by his ear, “didn’t your mother ever tell you it’s impolite to attack _strangers_?” At the topmost word, Philippa heaved a loud grunt as she rose and dragged his body forwards by the leather of his armour.

The man screamed gutturally, so boisterous that a few birds perched on a nearby roof scattered away quickly at the sound. Or perhaps it was the sight of a resolute Philippa hauling his body forwards ruthlessly; perhaps that picture of just barely contained wrath was more chilling than the unearthly wails of agony twisting out of the man’s mouth.

Philippa headed for the lantern – the old man from earlier had dropped his fishing hook on the ground and his chair was vacated. The closer she ventured towards the light, the more she could see of her attacker; a sandy mop of hair on top of his head and a trail of fresh blood blotting the ground beyond his body.

He was a mercenary; there were no two ways about it.

Her arm ached and the cut by her ribs stung; Philippa sighed deeply in relief when she released him on the ground by the lantern. He whined pathetically, and she turned her eyes skywards for only a moment before mustering all her strength to wave her arm away and send him flying to the wall of the hut in front of them with her magic.

“This is a very, _very_ expensive dress,” she panted, flashing her teeth insidiously all the while. “You’ve stained it.”

The man grit his teeth and stared at her in both resentment and helplessness.

Philippa steadied her breathing and stalked towards him slowly and deliberately.

“Tell me your name.”

“Go piss up a rope.”

“Oh he’s a feisty one,” Philippa deadpanned and tilted her head, and without prior warning twisted her wrist to the right. The overly audacious man turned frantic within seconds; the knife in his shoulder dug and tore into his flesh in sync with her movements.

After a particularly sharp motion and a blood-curling shout, the man whimpered “stop, stop! I’ll tell you!” and Philippa stood over him menacingly.

“Ælthen Lorgs,” he whistled out, breaths becoming fainter by the minute. Philippa nodded.

“And I’m certain you know who I am already, don’t you, Ælthen?”

He blinked at her for several seconds; as if struggling to nod but then remembering he had lost control of his muscles. He hummed instead.

“ _Good_ ,” Philippa purred and leaned so close she could feel his unsteady breaths on the side of her cheek. “That’s very good, Ælthen, because that means you know what I’m capable of. You know what I will do to you if you don’t answer my every question… don’t you?”

“…Yes,” he mumbled. “Yes I do.”

Philippa smirked. She pulled out the dagger thoughtlessly and ignored both his cries of pain and the spray of blood on the walls.

Whoever was on the other side of those walls would most probably have trouble getting proper sleep that night – or any night, if Philippa gave free reign to her particularly brutal inclinations.

“No, Ælthen,” she sighed, and wiped the blood off the edge of the blade on the wooden post next to her.

The dagger reflected portentously in the dark orbs of his eyes, but this time, Philippa was assured his genuine fear lay in what he saw in _her_ , not the object in her hold.

She tucked up the sleeves of her gown methodically.

“I’m afraid you don’t. If you had, you would not have dared strike at me to begin with.”

…..

**II. Spring**

“Oh goody, we’re rolling out the tobacco already. Things must be serious,” Philippa said dryly and rearranged her dress over her crossed legs, flicking away a strand of hair on the crease.

The air in the office was dreadfully stale; it was a wonder anyone could breathe anew in the stuffy space. Soon it would be springtime and biting cold would thaw under the sun’s heat – Thanedd, though surrounded by sea, was no different.

Temeria was notoriously famed for its abrupt shifts in weather conditions, with almost no soft transitions to soothe the sting of change between seasons. One day the farmers minded to the tender white stalks of their scallions, and the next they would have to hustle and sprinkle coffee grounds around the plantations, because while spring to peasants was the time of renaissance and prosperity, to working farmers it would only bring more cutworm infestations.

That was, if all the cutworms that year didn’t just opt to feast on Tissaia’s office instead; it would be an entirely feasible option, what with her incensed tobacco and overpriced woollen tapestries hanging from the walls.

So warm and sweltering it was in here that Philippa thought they may actually read the room as spring and emerge from her carpets, eating through the wooden furniture one expensive elm trestle at a time.

The thought, while utterly nauseating, prompted an entertained smirk on Philippa’s lips.

Tissaia, leaning delicately on the edge of her desk, took a particularly long drag from the pipe and observed her over it intently. Her eyes were not quite thinned in a glare, but then again the Archmage had never been obvious about her discontent; passive-aggressive banalities and invectives were more her style.

When the gaze remained locked in silence for one minute too long, Philippa promptly made a dismissive motion and adopted an airy tone which was sure to boil Tissaia’s blood quicker than fire.

“Please, don’t mind me,” she sighed theatrically, “I do so _adore_ a passive smoking session in the morning – I simply cannot wait for my lungs to shrivel and my hair to fall off. So much _fun._ ”

The deadpan in her voice did it.

Tissaia shook her head and slammed the parchment of paper in her hand on the flat of her desk with nearly as much scornful undertone as her voice held. Even heatedly, she had made certain to land it evenly on top of another stack of papers, but she rushed to rearrange her spectacles, which had been struck aside by the impetus of her movement.

Why she still had them was a true enigma; she barely wore them, and if ever she chose to do so, she rarely looked _through_ them, but rather preferred to look over them – because Tissaia’s sole purpose in life had apparently always been to ensure anyone and everyone who interacted with her felt like they were being told off at Sunday school.

At the rate she was rolling her eyes skyward, Philippa worried they would never function properly again.

“You must take me for some common fool if you expect me to endorse this.”

Philippa flattened her tongue against the back of her teeth and wove her fingers together on top of her lap exasperatedly.

Admittedly she took Tissaia for a lot of things; dull, ostentatiously pious to a fault and completely tasteless to name a few – but not a fool.

“Do not wound me, Tissaia,” she purred mockingly, “had I considered you a simpleton I would not have come to you in the first place; or do you really think me so incapable of strategy?”

“Save your flattery for your toy things,” Tissaia responded calmly, face stern. “I believe you would rather rip out your own tongue than admit to ulterior motives, so I shan’t even waste a guess on what it is you’re scheming this time. Unless there’s something else you’d like to discuss, feel free to show yourself out.”

Philippa huffed in faux-disbelief.

It was a rather hollow offer of Tissaia’s to make - Philippa could not recall the last time they had stood across each other to discuss something other than politics.

Exchanges with Tissaia could be neatly filed into three separate categories : firstly, arguments, which could be safely labelled as the most common – and the most pleasurable for Philippa, who prided herself on fashioning ordinary insults into marvels of wit.

Secondly, silent stand-offs, which happened less frequently but with double the intensity; especially when they were the inevitable consequence of someone else being within their vicinity, where they could not argue freely.

Lastly, polite conversation, which occurred seldom and only if, by luck of the draw, one or both of them remembered that they _could_ actually be civil with each other. At times, Philippa could even admit to a modicum of sincere fondness for her former teacher, even if such an admission could only ever be precipitated by inconceivable levels of torment.

“Always so hospitable,” she remarked, but before Tissaia could respond, rose from the padded sofa and approached the desk with purposeful steps. “Since when is an official executive proposal shelved without deliberation?”

Tissaia quirked an eyebrow and lifted the pipe to her lips. On her next exhalation, a pervasive draft of smoke curled in front of Philippa’s face, but that in itself it was a far lesser crime than the horrid stench she knew would cling to the fabric of her gown later.

It used to cling when she was young, too, and she had always found the feeling of it rather smothering.

“Official.” Tissaia stated testily, her gaze unimpressed.

It was a look Philippa had been on the receiving end of since time immemorial.

Philippa looked at the parchment and then back at her questioningly. “It bears my seal, does it not?”

Tissaia stared at her some more before turning around to take a seat at her chair. When she perched her arms on the sides with the same air of superiority she had been prone to carry as a Principal – always on the brink of unemotionally reciting a lecture on scruples – Philippa straightened up and ground her teeth silently.

She had yet to answer the original question, but Philippa recognized the unspoken words anyway : _since you’re the one who tabled it._

The parchment crinkled as Tissaia ran a nail over its edge. “It is not according to our ways.”

“Oh come now, Tissaia,” Philippa chuckled and threw her head back. “Have some wine, eat some truffles… grab a sailor and make the beast with two backs. Be a visionary! There’s more to the world than what a bunch of old liripoops in beards would have us believe.”

Tissaia’s lips jerked in indignation. “What colourful language. You've truly mastered the prose.”

Philippa smirked prettily. “You seem peeved. Was it the sailor? Forgive my poor suggestion,” she apologised, not at all contrite, and extended a finger to toy with the arrangement of vials in front of her. “Perhaps a priest would suit you better?” 

“It must be hard for you to fathom,” Tissaia tilted her chin superciliously and lowered the pipe on a coaster, steadying the small container of venom extract Philippa had prodded at with a grievous scowl, “but most of us can last a night without the carnal pleasures.”

“No doubt some of you have lasted far more than that,” Philippa quipped pointedly, satisfied with the brief irritation flashing in the Archmage’s eyes. “But enough talk on the merits of abstinence. We've digressed.”

She took a step back and nodded to the parchment.

“Save your breath, Philippa,” Tissaia waved her away. “I believe I've made myself understood. You have always been bright, but I will not allow your vainglory to undermine the legitimacy of this institution.”

 _Always with the tone of contempt,_ Philippa mused.

Alas, it did not phase her, for Tissaia’s compliments had felt like small delicacies laced with soupçons of poison for most of her life.

“You're exaggerating.” Philippa turned up the whites of her eyes and clasped her hands behind her back. “While the undisputable possibility of collusion within the two Chambers would be-” 

“Disgraceful.” 

“…regrettable,” Philippa offered instead and ran her tongue over her teeth patiently, “the benefits we could reap from this would be invaluable. A limited veto power for the Council could prevent abuse of power.”

It would also mean the Council could call for a conference with the Chapter if at least two members disapproved of a decision the latter had taken – and in those instances of rare convocation with the higher Chamber, Philippa would be able to finally surmise if the rotten apples had spoiled the whole barrel.

She already had a few clues as to what the answer would be.

“Or irreparably strengthen it,” Tissaia admonished dourly. “You'd go to great lengths to stick your nose where it does not belong, Philippa - even make it law. Because this is exactly what that paper is – roundabout legitimization of spying.”

“Where it does not belong?” Philippa repeated with incredulous and ostentatiously raucous laughter. “I must have misheard, Tissaia.”

“I think you heard me loud and clear.”

And Philippa thought of how she easy it would be to snatch the brass candleholder on her left and strike at Tissaia's maw with it - it was a recurring thought that had never abandoned her throughout the years the candlesticks had been there.

“I see,” she said slowly, dangerously. “And I suppose then my nose did not belong in Sodden either, or is your appreciation for my services selective?” 

Tissaia's glare was unwavering, but the tremor in her hand betrayed her. She adjusted the position of her pipe on the desk, forever pedantic in her discomfort.

“Sodden was a matter of exceptional gravity,” Tissaia explained. “But the decision of the Chapter not to review the lack of support for the battle, was, though lamentable, well-reasoned and largely independent-” 

“Oh cut the act, Tissaia. Who do you take me for? One of your factotums, to send away with elaborate lies and cheap appeasements?” Philippa scoffed. “Everyone knows Stregobor has Artaud Terranova by the short hairs. And without you and Vilgefortz to partake in the deliberations, it was largely up to him and Hen Gedymdeith to adjudicate.”

“Enid-”

“Francesca Findabair sent aid to the battle. Her opinions were also overlooked during the deliberations. Let us face the facts; two senile old men made a terrible judgment call.”

“Baseless accusations will not persuade me of your goals, Philippa, but only estrange me further.”

“No I suppose they will not.” Nothing ever had.

Philippa snarled and glanced away, towards one of the windows.

Beyond it, the sea was grey and steeping angrily. She could feel the throb of its disquiet in the room, the budding rise and sink of violent waves swaying with the wind.

Had the curtains been drawn and the room were soaked in blackness, she should think she would still know a storm was brewing, just by the despairing feeling of mounting restlessness and deplorable folly overpowering the air.

 _Tissaia’s uncompromising sense of righteousness will get her killed one day_ , Philippa thought _, if not all of us._

She finally sneered viciously.

“Not even Triss Merigold's appalling set of scars could sway the sanctimonious Tissaia de Vries. Not even the sight of her dear Yennefer!” At the calculated mention, Tissaia’s eyes turned sullen, but her brows were contorted in annoyance. “I hear she is alive and well, by the by, only blind. A pity, wouldn't you say?” 

“Out of all of you, it is not Yennefer I pity.”

“Of course not,” Philippa acquiesced, alight in brutal cynicism. “Yennefer you treasure, like a good mother would her dearest child. Tell me, how is the campaign for her coming along? Will you approach the Council soon with your commendations?”

Tissaia's jaw tightened impossibly, as did her eyes. Philippa had always been cutting with her spoken words; but even more so with her implications.

“Your self-importance truly knows no bounds.” Tissaia repudiated, shaking her head. “Everything is simply means to an end to you, isn’t it?”

There was rampant accusation in Tissaia’s voice, but why so constituted a mystery when pitiless fortitude was what she had been primed for during the better part of her school life.

But the exchange was a moment of astounding clarity; as if she had been transported back to the dark night outside Acorn Bay, watching Triss Merigold square in the eye while being accused so vehemently of moral depravity.

Philippa laughed unhurriedly, wetting her upper lip incredulously.

“You've truly made her in your image…” she mused, and disregarded the befuddled wrinkle of Tissaia’s brow. “Did you forget, Tissaia, that I was there with you at the camp, when you so feebly sat and mourned your students? Did you forget who searched for them? Their mangled corpses and bloody limbs?”

“How could I,” Tissaia muttered gloomily.

“You shouldn’t,” Philippa stated harshly. “I know I won’t. I care for the welfare of our Continent’s mages as much as you do, Tissaia. I believe I demonstrated that thoroughly during our time in the battlefield.”

“And I was proud to watch you take a stand for them. It is no secret you have always been the most headstrong of them all, Philippa,” Tissaia smiled sadly; her praise another double-edged sword, no doubt. “An admirable quality that you put to good use at Sodden.”

Philippa stared at her coolly.

“But do you believe that absolves you of any wrong you may commit? Do you expect me to fall on my knees and thank you, Philippa? To support your ventures without question?” Tissaia continued, then her lips slipped from sadness to bitterness. “That was then and this is now. I am not so naïve as to believe your altruistic intentions remain consistent throughout the years, Philippa. Even you cannot possibly be so blinded by your egotism to think I am.”

“I am not blind, Tissaia,” Philippa tilted her head. “I have never been more alert. Or determined. I was, after all tutored by the best,” she praised derisively, knowing Tissaia would loathe holding that privilege. “Did my ambition grow too big for you, teacher?” 

She could see it in Tissaia's eyes; Philippa was long past an age in which she could recall that answer being a 'no'.

The older woman eventually leaned forward, fingers splayed firmly on the parchment. “I would sooner call this a temper tantrum, Philippa.”

She seemed indignant, but it must have been exhilarating, the power to live on eternally through her students, even if it was only in small portions amongst the larger fate they spun.

And though Tissaia had always resented her cunning streaks and loose interpretation of morals, Philippa’s story too had started here, within those very same walls – fortuitously setting Tissaia’s hand-embroidered kilims on fire and scarpering away to the hallways when the instructors caught her waylaying the fish in the fountains.

She wondered if that was what truly clawed at Tissaia’s conscience; as sure as dragons breathed fire, Philippa was a product of her teachings as all the others were, and since Tissaia had elected to shoulder the emotional burden of her students’ sins, she had to bear hers too.

Philippa cared very little for it, and she would eagerly release Tissaia from this duty of her own creation if only Tissaia wasn’t so obstinate and unyielding; so convinced that this role she had assumed was sustainable.

If only Tissaia did not stare after her, at her most exposed, like it was mighty hard and costly to be at constant odds. If only she did not sometimes look at her just short of how she looked at Yennefer.

If only that, Philippa could relieve her of her foolish endeavours.

But since Tissaia contemplated herself a self-made mother, with established favourites and let-downs to satisfy the cliché, she could suffer her own pathos.

Philippa placed her hands on the desk and her eyes glinted cruelly, but before she could utter a vituperative retort, the door behind them was nudged wide open and the uniquely saccharine tone of Margarita Laux-Antille’s dulcet voice wandered heavily through the air.

“Must I always find you two at each other's throats like this?” 

She was cradling a half-empty glass of Everluce in one hand and a herbarium in the other; with the jaded stance and reproachful look she had adopted, she seemed the quintessence of an overworked teacher. 

There was a rosy flush settled on her cheeks and her curls were limp, the top buttons of her gown haphazardly undone; if Philippa had not studied here herself long enough to know the timetables, she could have almost assumed it was an entirely different activity that had rendered her so loose-limbed.

She would not put it past Rita to manage it even amidst the classes, either.

Amused at the thought, she collected herself – not a minute sooner than had she directed one last scathing stare towards Tissaia – and turned to nod at her over her shoulder. 

“Margarita,” she greeted with a measured smile. “Do not mind us, we were only jesting.”

“Of course,” Rita concurred wryly and did not bother to pretend she had been the least bit convinced. 

Though Margarita and Philippa had never been particularly close, through repeated exposure she had become thoroughly familiar with the general sentiment underpinning Philippa’s and Tissaia’s discussions over the years.

“Are you drinking?” Tissaia’s eyes lessened to slits almost comically when she spotted the alcohol, lips curled over her teeth in a hiss.

Suddenly, Margarita, like the true aide-de-camp that she was in the strenuous attempts against Tissaia’s nicotine addiction, narrowed her eyes at Tissaia in turn and gesticulated pointedly towards the remnants of tobacco on her workspace. 

“You’re one to talk,” she groaned. “Will you ever quit that awful thing? It reeks in here.”

With a wave of Rita’s wrist, the window behind Tissaia unlatched. Philippa gratefully inhaled clean air for what seemed to be the first time in the last hour.

Tissaia breathed evenly and sank back into her chair, resigned. 

“You would not find me so agreeable to talk to without it,” she cautioned, fingers rubbing at her forehead.

 _I would not find you agreeable to talk to ever_ , Philippa remarked in her head, but held her tongue at the severe look Rita shot her. 

“Regardless,” Rita muttered, then dropped that sentence short before shutting the door closed behind her with the heel of her shoe and plopping down on one of the long couches unceremoniously. 

Philippa rolled her eyes at her antics and hummed breezily.

“How's the new post treating you, Principal Laux-Antille?” 

“It's the time of my life,” Margarita replied monotonously, but despite the sarcasm, Philippa knew this was exactly what she had sought out.

Rita had never had a grasp on politics; and she fostered enmity for adversity. Meandering behind inept children and passing on archaic knowledge was far more fitting for her. 

She was sort of similar to Tissaia in a way, Philippa supposed; if the latter was blonde and had a personality more interesting than that of an aspiring nun.

Margarita had tolerance thresholds which could stagger one’s imagination – and where could those be more useful than in the classroom?

Teenage girls were often more troublesome than army commanders; the vox populi could corroborate.

It was a fact notably truer for teenage girls who could incidentally transform a man into a kumquat with a flick of their wrist.

“Your dedication is admirable,” Philippa cocked a hip against the desk, knocking askance a set of quills, and ignored the sidelong glare Tissaia aimed her way. “I'm surprised you've not yet tried to locate and sneak a man in here, Rita.”

Margarita had never once seemed to be the type to settle for life as an anchorite – another notable disparity between her and Tissaia, who was a recluse in all but name.

Rita huffed and flourished her hand in a shooing motion, head lolled over the back of the couch and eyes fluttered closed. 

“I have a man already,” she sighed dreamily.

“Is that so,” Philippa quirked a brow, and then watered down the apparent curiosity with a droll quip. “Whose?” 

Behind Philippa, Tissaia gritted her teeth as if the conversation caused her physical pain. At the sight of Margarita's decidedly less than virtuous hand gesture towards Philippa's approximate direction, Philippa smirked and Tissaia finally cleared her throat, entwining her hands over the desk impatiently. 

“If you two are quite finished with your little chat, I would kindly ask you to depart.”

Margarita smiled charmingly. “I would kindly decline, dear teacher.”

“Should you not be getting on with your work, Margarita?” Tissaia asked, ignoring Rita’s grumble of protest, then turned to Philippa. “And I am certain the great Philippa Eilhart has no doubt crucial State matters to tend to… royals to bribe, prisoners to torture, and sundry other bloody affairs.”

Rita snorted behind the rim of her glass, but Philippa swivelled around to pin Tissaia with a harsh gaze.

“As you wish,” she declared. “ But I'm well familiar with protocol; do not forget it. That proposal bears my seal - you must forward it to the Chapter,” Philippa bent over the furniture between them just slightly. “As it is a cross-chamber issue, you _must_ convene a general meeting with the Council, otherwise you might just smear this institution’s proud legitimacy...”

Tissaia’s lips twitched.

The likelihood of her motion making the cut was slim to none, but no matter; it was the procedure she cared for. Even this initial meeting of deliberation would be enough for her to decipher the innerworkings of foul play in the Brotherhood.

Tissaia stared at her - her aggravation was almost tangible in the air between them - but Philippa only smirked and made for the door.

“…I look forward to hearing back from you, Tissaia.”

……

_Dearest Philippa,_

_It is with a great sense of accomplishment that I announce to you our good friend, the bard, has been apprehended in the outskirts of Murivel by a group of private security guards for the relevant banking institutions in the city._

_As I am aware you are currently occupied with no doubt extremely critical enterprises in the east, I took the liberty of interviewing him as to his questionable intentions these past few months on my own. The following can be surmised by his typically magniloquent babbling :_

_Firstly, he was not fleeing from the Redanian retinue but merely strived to ‘keep them on the qui vive’, which, as you know, translates to having unearthed something of unique interest to his personage and rushing to cash in on it to his full benefit. From cross-examining the available evidence on hand, I can corroborate that the brave adventurer was on his way to Kaedwen when we so ‘callously interfered with his formidable voyage’._

_He maintained that this was in fact a purely recreational trip; however reports from the Intelligence’s other efforts would dictate otherwise. It is most likely that the bard sought out to join his partner-in-arts, the witcher, in Kaedwen. At this time, I can neither confirm nor deny whether the witcher is indeed employed in that area._

_Secondly, he assured me that news from Nilfgaard are not much worth a mention – but I urged him to mention them regardless. In short words : the unrest escalating last spring beyond the Yaruga, in Ebbing, had lately been spreading to Geso and Maecht._

_At the time of writing this almost a full year has passed since the Ebbing insurrection, and I am now in position to verify that during the spring equinox, a surge of organized counter-attacks in the South was conclusively squandered by the so-called Pacifiers of Gemmera._

_Thirdly, and most notably, my dearest Philippa, I should hope that your continued silence in the face of my letters to you is because, as you are so occupied by no doubt extremely critical enterprises in the east, you have little time to dedicate to writing back to the head of Redanian Intelligence._

_This, while hurtful to my psyche, is far more preferable than the prospect of something so upsetting as you, for example, withholding precious intelligence from me. I daren’t ever upset you in this way, and I hope the same is true for you._

_As a show of incredibly good will, I thus inform you that the bard, for the duration of his recreational visit to Vizima, fervently endeavoured to establish the whereabouts of none other than your good friend, sorceress Triss Merigold of Maribor, who according to our newest recruit, the mercenary, has recently travelled to Cidaris in a purely personal capacity._

_The working theory is that the bard seeks to find someone else with the aid of Triss Merigold; a common acquaintance to both himself and the witcher._

_But as you are so preoccupied by critical enterprises in the east, you would know nothing of that, would you?_

_My greatest respects and most benevolent wishes,_

_Signed, April of 1266,  
Sigismund Dijkstra._

_  
P.S: Our good friend, the bard, has also been released in the south of Temeria, but he has refused the task of amassing more intelligence on the Temerian King’s inclinations and Nilfgaardian uprisings. What would you have me do about his insolence?_

……

“Well if the Continent isn’t sinking…”

Yennefer of Vengerberg lowered her glass of wine on the table in front of her slowly, and with wary eyes.

Philippa stood at pause by the entrance even more warily.

Then, with a controlled smile, she spoke.

“And if it were, I’d trust you to drink your way to the bottom,” she nodded to the chalice cradled in Yennefer’s fingertips.

For the next few moments, there was nothing but the hushed, mundane sounds of spring; mayflies whirring around the spearmint by the roads, children laughing joyously and with small, metal boxes in their dirty palms, attempting to capture them.

‘Prisoners of war’, the children called the insects, and Philippa moved along the streets promptly for had she tarried any longer, they might have looked into her eyes and realized what a real war was.

This too felt something akin to a war; of charged gazes and silent demands, perhaps, though Philippa was not sure. She could never be sure, with Yennefer, and she was inclined to believe the problem was shared; otherwise she was at a considerable disadvantage and the sheer idea of it irked her.

With a tentative gesture, Yennefer motioned to the chair across from her.

Philippa patted down her doublet and walked in, casting a glance towards the lacklustre bar and even more dreary innkeeper near them but saying nothing of the thoughts crossing her mind;

That Yennefer could not have found a more miserable and substandard location to withdraw in if she tried, that Philippa’s taste buds cried in distress even at the mere sight of the soured piss-water passed off as wine there, that Vengerberg smelled of shit and smeared creosote and overzealous sweaty crowds, and Philippa could feel the stink of it in her bones.

“You’ve mistaken me for the resident alcoholic, I’m afraid,” Yennefer smiled strangely. “How is Margarita, by the way?”

“Well,” Philippa assured. She fought off a grimace when a few botflies circled her palm on the table. She twisted a finger and two of them hit the ground. She could not, however, help a short frown at the stench of the wine Yennefer was consuming. “Penitent for her fleshly sins as always.”

Both of them dutifully laughed.

Yennefer wiped at absent moisture under her eye.

Philippa held her eyes crinkled and leaned back lazily; but only to an extent – a calculated measure of idleness that necessitated premeditation and indicated performative ease.

“And Tissaia?” Yennefer asked after a moment of silence.

Her voice was unsurprisingly tentative; after Sodden and months of silence they had mended the cracks and grown closer, of course, almost as close as they had been before Yennefer’s motherly aspirations tore them apart, but her expressions of sentiment for Tissaia apparently remained largely restrained.

Needlessly so, Philippa was compelled to point out, because their bond had never been a secret and Philippa could hardly be fooled – not when she had known both of them for so long.

Not when she had seen Tissaia mourn the loss and then silently, noiselessly celebrate the return; like a stern mother would for her prodigal daughter.

It was curious, Philippa contemplated, that they had been at odds on such a matter to begin with, when they were both guilty of the same fault; they had both attempted to undertake a task neither had been suited to.

Philippa pursed her lips.

She hummed and her brows bounced amusedly.

“Come now, Yenna,” she wet her lips. “She writes to you, of course.”

“Of course,” Yennefer replied. She caressed the rim of her glass with a deft finger. Her eyes were two glimmering amethyst gems in the shadows. “But it is Tissaia, after all, and that old schoolmarm never tells me of her health. You know it’s only ever politics or peacekeeping with her…”

 _I know,_ Philippa mused, and chuckled on cue, _I know it is for me, but it is not so for you, Yennefer. Yet I will laugh anyways, because courteousness demands it._

“She is well also,” Philippa sighed pensively, “exhausting herself as usual.”

Yennefer sighed in turn and beckoned the innkeeper, who hustled from behind the counter, abandoning the cutlery he was polishing to hurry to their table.

“Yes m’lady?”

“Philippa, what is your fancy? My treat. Something strong for the long journey, perhaps.”

Philippa lifted a brow and stared intensely at the innkeeper. “A bottle of bourbon will suffice.”

“Bourbon?” Yennefer’s brows furrowed and her lips lopsided downwards. “Why that’s too modest, even for you.”

Philippa smiled dishonestly at the sarcastic tone.

“Perhaps the lady would enjoy some excellent locally freeze-distilled beer instead?” The innkeeper offered hastily.

Yennefer’s eyes narrowed dramatically at him. “Beer?” She questioned, the deliberately exaggerated sentiment in her voice only detectable by Philippa. “You might as well call us harlots and insult our honor, then.”

“O-of course not, I wouldn’t- Lady Yennefer-”

“Oh shush. Away with you,” she waved him away, and then sent another tremor through his linen shirt when she ordered. “Wait!”

Philippa licked the roof of her mouth and sat still at the performance.

“Pick something else, Phil, at your leisure.”

Philippa smiled again, this time more forcefully than the last. “Perhaps a dry sherry.”

“My, I’m beginning to worry for you, dear,” Yennefer shook her head and tapped her nails on the table theatrically. “Bring us a carafe of your finest wine,” she commanded, and the man scurried away like a rat pursued by a cat. It wasn’t too far-fetched a simile, Philippa supposed.

She locked her fingers on top of the table and said nothing more of the matter.

Philippa sought Yennefer’s time and Yennefer sought to have her suffer through a demijohn of alcohol as good as urine; the terms of the pact were clear and unalterable – Yennefer, as always with matters of such delicate and stealthy diplomacy, had made sure of it.

“I must admit,” Yennefer started, any sentiment wiped from her voice, “I did not expect your letter.”

Philippa evened out a stubborn wrinkle on her sleeve. “Just as well,” she smiled. “I did not expect your response. Evidently unexpected things can sometimes be wonderful things.”

“Evidently,” Yennefer agreed.

They ceased conversation when the innkeeper placed a glass in front of Philippa and a carafe in the middle of the table. The glass was full of thumbprints. Philippa tightened her lips and muttered a cleansing spell.

Yennefer’s eyes flashed in poorly concealed entertainment. So poorly concealed, in fact, one would wonder if it was meant to be concealed at all.

“Tell me, Yenna,” Philippa started, “how do you feel about your soon-to-be definite promotion?”

“Gods, Philippa,” Yennefer tsked and took a sip of her wine, “at least entertain a girl with some small talk first.”

Philippa did not touch the drink. She leaned back on her chair and carefully crossed a leg over the other.

If small talk was what Yennefer wanted, Philippa would hate to disappoint.

“Is it true Vengerberg has the highest fertility rates in the whole eastern Continent? I’ve always wondered.”

Yennefer lowered her glass.

“It is so,” Yennefer licked her lips and similarly leaned back into her chair. For once during this entire exchange, she looked stiffer than Philippa felt. “Aedirnians are very… enthusiastic during Birke and Beltane. You could imagine, I’m certain.”

“Why I could even relate…”

Both of them laughed. Yennefer did not bother to swipe at her eyelid this time and Philippa did not urge her smile to reach her eyes.

“And you, Yennefer?” Philippa asked.

Yennefer sucked in her cheeks subtly; but not subtly enough.

“I’ve no time for it,” she dismissed, and took a larger sip of her wine. “And it does get rather tedious, after a while, do you not find?”

“I can’t say that I do,” Philippa quirked an eyebrow. “Then again, I do not anticipate much of an effect other than its inherent pleasures.”

Yennefer sharply glanced away, then recomposed herself. Philippa maintained a dispassionate exterior.

“I see,” Yennefer waved it off. Then she sighed. “Well, I should thank you for humoring me. Where were we then?” She paused. “Ah, my future posting.”

Philippa nodded.

“Let us spare the pretenses – it would be a tempting offer, were it presented to anyone but me. Just the thought of all the patriarchal bull-crap I will have to put up with brings me a headache,” she rubbed at the skin between her eyebrows in emphasis.

“Nonetheless,” Yennefer continued, “ever since Sheala resigned from her seat there has, lamentably, only been one female voice of reason in the Council; yours, of course, and – Gods, I can see the bottom of my glass. Please, Philippa, do not make me finish this all on my own. Have some wine.”

Yennefer pushed the carafe towards her. Philippa uncapped it and poured the drink sparingly.

She drank it even more so.

“I was saying,” Yennefer resumed, “it is ridiculously pitiful as it is that it took them so long to rectify this shortcoming, and despite my… distaste for this Brotherhood, I feel now would be as good a time as any to add another critical voice to the Council.”

Yennefer paused.

“And how could I turn the other cheek at a golden opportunity to infuriate Stregobor? Especially after the shitshow on Sodden…”

Philippa snorted. “That’s too charitable a description.”

“Hm, is it?” asked Yennefer. Her words were deceptively airy; her gaze was exceptionally deep. “And what would you know about that, Philippa?”

It was startling, almost, how closely Yennefer resembled Tissaia with her eyebrow propped up like that; a blend of condescension and shiftiness reserved for Philippa’s most callous moments.

She could remember being young, sometime before the world had revealed itself larger than Aretuza’s draperies and the four walls of Tissaia’s office, and if the memory had a face, Philippa figured it was only fair it would be that one.

If it had a scent it would smell of Tissaia’s cinnamon and Zerrikanian pepper perfume mixed with the rancid smoke of her pipe; if it had a taste, it would no doubt be bittersweet.

Absently, she wondered what Yennefer’s would feel like – would it be kinder to the pondering mind?

Would it be sweeter?

Philippa leaned forward, eyes unflinching.

“I was there, after,” she spoke. “I fought, I healed, and I picked up the pieces. There’s not much glory to the task, I’m afeared, but someone had to do it.”

Yennefer slowly shook her head.

“ _After_ was not when you were needed, Philippa. We were fighting with a hand tied behind our back.”

But the sight of a teary-eyed Tissaia was fresh on her mind, and the ringing of Triss’s eerie wails loud in her head. And Yennefer could never understand; that Philippa had gone withershins and nearly speared the moon on a stick to _fix_ things, to make things right.

That she was trying to do it still, in her own way.

There were many things Yennefer could not understand. Or Tissaia, Philippa mused.

Their _after_ was much different to Philippa’s; Yennefer’s was swathed in darkness for a year and Tissaia’s in denial and stubborn belief in her traditions.

Philippa’s was death; Coral’s limbless body and Yoël’s scattered remains. It was effort and suspicion; diplomacy, politics, spying and bargaining.

But it was also bitten-into green apples and bloodied gauzes – it was the molten longing in Triss Merigold’s eyes and the crescent imprints of her nails on Philippa’s shoulders. Vanilla perfume permeating the air when she moved and the milk-stained, yellowed pages of a poetry book she had stolen from Vanielle’s library when she was a child.

Because “love is at least curious to read about, when you’ve never had it,” Triss had stated, and licked a thumb to turn another page. And though it was hard to imagine Triss had never had it for someone, Philippa did not doubt she had probably never felt it returned.

 _No_ , Philippa thought, remembering Tissaia’s tears and Sabrina’s wrath and Triss’s pain altogether.

 _After,_ had been exactly when she was needed.

But she could not say so to Yennefer, because Yennefer could never understand; had never had to, because she was younger and her relationship with Philippa was as shallow as a platter at its deepest.

Perhaps they had never understood each other at all, and Philippa absently wondered who was to blame for the grim fact.

But she thought back for a moment, of something else, then laughed, suddenly.

“Spirits,” she chuckled, “I never thought I would live to see the day you and Sabrina Glevissig concurred on anything, Yennefer.”

In a swift moment, Yennefer’s previous intensity defused. She grimaced.

“Let us pretend I never said a thing, then.”

……

“And he be wearing fuckin’ tights!”

The man hoisting a sack of silver goblets wheezed, doubled over, and dropped his merchandise by his feet, roaring with merriment.

“And, and-” his partner stuttered between shallow breaths, “the damned fool tried to have the guards sing along!”

More weal and more merriment. Little to no work.

Vazer’s wife was sure to give him an earful when he returned home, but he had always been rather short-sighted and could care less about it. Such was his intellect – he had not accounted for the fact that his belly was awful destitute of content, and when the time came to stuff it, his wife’s kitchen would be the only place to turn to.

“Had the dimwit at least anythin’ of interest to say?” He asked after a while, slothfully retying the sack’s laces at the top.

“Bah,” the partner abruptly coughed and spat at the ground. “More of war and death.”

“And women?” Vazer, tempting fate and his wife’s wrath with his questions, prodded.

“I don’ think he’s ever laid eyes on one, the poor sod.”

A moment of brief silence, and then, eruption in laughter.

“But he did say-” the partner continued, sticking some straw between his teeth and chewing on it reflectively, as if his brain were capable of such a function, “he did say sumn’ about dead witches, so he did.”

“Dead witches?” Vazer ditched the sack again, which shrivelled and folded over as if desolate and resigned to its sorry fate. “What of them?”

“They be heroes in the south, the dead witches. They’ve statues to their name.”

“Statues?”

“As I tell it to you,” he coughed again. “Their Kings are dupes. They built ‘em statues and sang their praises and now they’ve been made out to look like clowns, because some of ‘em live!”

“They live?!”

“It is so, they’re like cockroaches,” the man chewed a bit too strongly and chomped down on his tongue. He shrieked and cursed, spitting out the piece of straw and stomping on it with his foot with all his might.

“Darned witches,” he muttered and his eyes flicked around the field as if thinking one might have been watching and listening and she had cast a spell on his teeth to smite him.

“Who were they?” Vazer asked.

“And how the fuck should I know?”

“The poet must have said!”

“Bah, Vazer,” he waved him away and stepped forward, hauling the abandoned sack on his back. “Like I care. They ain’t gonna invite me to their bed, are they?”

Vazer shrugged. It had been years since his partner had been invited into a _house_ , much less a bed.

“Dreadful, that must be, to have a gravestone to your name before your time,” he mumbled. “Poor witches.”

Instantly, the back of his neck bloomed with sudden stinging redness. He glared over his shoulder at the offending hand.

“You’ve been smoking too much fume again, Vaz. Witches ain’t poor! They be anything but!”

“They be poor when they be treated like the walking dead!”

“Tomfool!” The man snapped. “I’d like to see you show that sympathy when they threaten to take your balls.”

“And why would they do that up here, on the Gwenllech? They couldn’t.”

“Blimey you’re right, they couldn’t,” the partner nodded emphatically. “I forgot you have none.”

No more merriment but still little to no work amidst their bickering; and no mind to pay to the hooded, tall and dark figure by the trees, silent and stealthy as he was.

......

“I will not present myself at the meeting. I cannot help you,” Yennefer stated, very matter-of-factly and without emotion. “I think you expected as much when you came here.”

“Yes,” Philippa nodded.

She turned slightly to better face the violet eyes staring her down.

Yennefer glanced at the mare in front of them.

“And yet you came anyway,” she pointed out. “Why?”

Philippa hummed thoughtfully for a moment, then pushed herself up on the horse’s stirrups.

 _Because I needed to know,_ she thought. _I needed to know where you stand._

“You ought to know,” Philippa digressed, “someone who I think may interest you is wandering around in the south of Temeria, playing havoc with the locals as he’s prone to do. Unfortunately for him, not everyone views it as a game.”

Yennefer narrowed her eyes up at her questioningly.

“Whenever you next see him, please give the troubadour Sigismund Dijkstra’s heartfelt regards,” she finished.

Violet eyes shone in recognition.

Before there could be further conversation on it, Philippa nudged her horse.

“It’s been good to see you, Yenna,” she offered, only a little ways short in her honesty.

Philippa had only very few people she truly, actively wished harm upon, and Yennefer was not one of them.

She oftentimes suspected that had she not known Yennefer for so long; had they not been so messily woven from the same tangle of a yarn, it might have been easier to genuinely like her, even marginally.

Yennefer’s brows crinkled – in confusion or suspicion, Philippa did not know, for she could never be _sure_ with Yennefer – but after a while, her mouth turned up in a smirk.

“Yes, it’s indeed been good to see,” she sighed dramatically.

Philippa laughed, effortlessly, just this once.

…….

**III. Summer  
  
  
** In Vizima the heat was stifling and the air stale, carrying with it the stench of sweat and physical exertion, but in Ard Carraigh it was more of an occasional lick of warmth on her arms, accompanied by the customary soothing breezes of the high north.

Keira popped another button of her pressed shirt open and walked hastily to the entrance of the botanical garden.

Through the top of the gates overgrown bougainvillea was plaited in, out and around the iron bars, and when Keira flicked a wrist to force it open the metal creaked and whined, as if it were wont to keep this small earthly paradise concealed just a while longer.

But it caved eventually, and Keira whistled a sigh through her teeth in awe.

Sabrina had truly outdone herself with the location this time.

In front of her greenery sprawled amply in all directions, glowing brilliantly under the sun poking through a few stubborn clouds still clinging to Kaedwen’s firmament.

Keira took unhurried and self-indulgent steps down the walked path in front of her, caring not one bit that Sabrina would probably flip her lid at her lack of punctuality. She had found the task of irritating her peers rather entertaining since she had been a young novice; and Sabrina’s short temper was certain to produce delightful results.

After a minute or two (or three – Keira was hardly taking note) of soaking up the calmness of the scenery and relishing in the moderate heat, she quickened her pace and came upon a small clearing adorned only with a large oak tree, under which none other than Sabrina Glevissig was stewing in ire.

“Good morning, dear,” Keira beamed after she had sidled up to her nonchalantly.

“Oh it would be, if only I’d brought my arrows with me,” Sabrina warned lowly, glaring at Keira with something akin to murderous intent shining in her eyes.

Keira waved her away and with a mournful sigh dropped herself on the bench behind them.

“That’s no way to treat an esteemed guest, Brina.”

“ _Esteemed?_ ” Sabrina laughed ludicrously.

“And the vicious attack on my character continues,” Keira clicked her tongue. “Perhaps I should reconsider the schedule of my precious vacation in the east. I hear Upper Aedirn is much more welcoming to holidaymakers…”

Sabrina looked down at her with blatant disgust pulling her lips into a sneer. “As welcoming as it is to those elves, no doubt. You would rather associate yourself with those vile creatures than me?”

Keira would rather have associated herself with a soft mattress and a well-set chap over anything, but she bit her lip and fluttered her eyelashes in appeasement. As much as annoying Sabrina could prove an amusing undertaking, inspiring a sempiternal tirade about the innate inferiority of the elven race was not at all what she sought to achieve that day.

“Of course not,” Keira assured, and patted the space on the bench next to her. “Come, sit. Let us catch up Brina. Your stories of cunning parleys with the enemy have always been my favorite to listen to.”

Sabrina ran a hand through her long, golden ponytail, and took a seat near her.

“You’re lying,” Sabrina stated blankly.

“You know me _so well_ ,” Keira grinned with calculation, and played to Sabrina’s tune. “Now tell me, when was the last time you had a proper shag?”

“I’m afraid we’ve no time for such talk, Keira,” Sabrina muttered wistfully. Then, she patted her dress down and looked away, towards the horizon. “I can feel significant change looming over us, and how it may or may not affect my sexual habits is, believe it, currently the least of my concerns.”

“Oh dear,” Keira dramatically lifted a hand to her gaping mouth and emphatically ignored Sabrina’s glare, because it was better to feign ignorance than to reveal her hand too soon. “This is that serious then?”

……

“Is everyone under the impression my consultation hours are free of charge all-you-can-rant sessions devoted to resolving petty catfights and juvenile drama between adults? Or might it be that I’ve been mistaken for the receptionist?”

Philippa moved from the door she had just opened and did not slow her pace.

The few novices on her way, wide-eyed and quick to identify her status, scattered to the sides of the room as she marched through them.

Behind her desk, Margarita pursed her lips at the lack of response and maintained her cool.

“Because I can easily disabuse you of such notion, Philippa. I am the _Principal_ of this entire school _,_ lest you people forgot?” Margarita gesticulated about the office disbelievingly. “I have papers to grade and actual juveniles to oversee.”

Philippa clasped her hands behind her back and paused. “Us people?”

“Carduin of Lan Exeter was just here.”

“Ah,” Philippa angled her head over her shoulder. Before she said anything else, she glanced towards the students deliberately.

Margarita rolled her eyes, and with a long-suffering sigh and a nod towards the door, dismissed them.

After the last of them had ambled through the threshold, Philippa motioned sharply with two fingers and the door latched closed. At the sight of her mouth opening, Rita promptly lifted a silencing hand.

“Tissaia is at the lobby by the deliberation hall. She’s been in a dreadful mood for the better part of this week, so I would keep the sarcasm on a minimum today if I were you. Vilgefortz and Radcliffe of Oxenfurt have joined her. Fercart of Cidaris is at the main library with Carduin and Artaud Terranova is off doing… well _whatever_ it is that seedy old men of his age may do.” Margarita grimaced.

Again, Philippa made to speak, and again, she was swiftly silenced.

“ _No,_ Yennefer of Vengerberg is not making an appearance; _yes,_ Enid and Gerhart are attending through apparition, _no,_ lodgings for the night have not been arranged. The table in the deliberation hall has been set, and it is our _sincere_ pleasure to welcome you to our most humble abode. Have I covered you?”

Philippa, despite herself, snorted.

“You’ve missed your true calling.”

Margarita exhaled heavily. “Lately, I’ve been feeling so, too.”

It was not like Margarita to be unsure of herself when it came to her teaching skills.

Philippa carelessly lifted a brow in genuine shock.  
  
It was mostly so easy to be revealing in front of Rita; Philippa need not have bothered with pretenses when it came to her, and the certainty of the fact was comforting in the most simple, agreeable of ways.

With doleful eyes and a sigh, Margarita elaborated.

“As I said,” she leaned back on her chair, “Tissaia has been feeling particularly judgmental recently. More so than usual…” she trailed off, then stared up at Philippa exasperatedly. “You couldn’t possibly have anything to do with that, could you?”

Philippa regarded her for a moment, and decided that there would be plenty of time for seriousness later, at the deliberation hall. With people who warranted such severity and aloofness.

There and then, with the only other person in the room being probably the most well-intentioned sorceress in the Continent, she could afford some levity.  
  
Philippa tilted her head mirthfully.

“ _Me?!_ ” Theater troupes would have shed tears of jealousy at the profound emotion she held her hand to her chest with.

Perhaps if the person so rudely flinging a mopping cloth at her face wasn’t Margarita Laux-Antille, whom, as a novice, she had once witnessed attempting to water a desert cactus with coconut rum, Philippa might have felt inclined to retaliate – but try as she might, she could not bring herself to feel even the slightest bit bothered about it.

……

“Well I must say,” Vilgefortz began, his fingers clasped securely on top of the table, “sitting with all of you today is a far more agreeable affair than last time.”

Artaud Terranova, Radcliffe of Oxenfurt and Gerhart all nodded and murmured their assent. Enid remained silent. Fercart took a sip of his wine while Tissaia and Carduin shifted on their seats.

Philippa hummed and leaned further back on her chair.

She had expected Vilgefortz to commence the discussions; he had, after all, become the de facto leader of the Chapter, whether or not the rest of them cared to acknowledge the fact.

“We have eaten and we have had our fill of a good Cidaris bottle of chardonnay – I thank Tissaia de Vries for her hospitality as always.”

More nods and murmurs.

Tissaia bowed her head. “Your gratitude is appreciated, Vilgefortz, though perhaps misallocated. Margarita Laux-Antille is to thank for the assortment of refreshments today; a welcoming gift from her to you under her new title.”

“Let us drink to her health and prosperity, then,” the ghostly apparition of Hen Gedymdeith, forever the gentle old man, lifted a glass of what Philippa assumed was sugared water ; the man could not afford to drink much alcohol at his age.

Everyone took a sip of their drink of choice. Philippa eyed over hers Artaud Terranova, who had sneered at the mention of Rita’s promotion not as subtly as he must have originally intended.

After a few moments, Radcliffe of Oxenfurt spoke.

“It is my understanding, ladies and gentlemen, that we are gathered here today for the consideration of an executive request. Am I correct in believing so?”

Tissaia cleared her throat.

“That is indeed so, Radcliffe,” she threw a sidelong glance at Philippa. “As member of the Council, Philippa Eilhart has initiated official reform proceedings in favour of her proposal.”

“Which is?” Fercart of Cidaris cut in.

From her left, an impeccably dressed vision of Francesca Findabair lifted a silencing hand. As was customary as regards to the well-revered elf, everyone took heed of her motion.

“Before we address such substantive issues, let us first make certain that the appropriate procedural requirements have been respected,” Francesca turned to her. “Philippa, have you codified the proposal?”

“Of course,” Philippa spoke for the first time, voice even.

She was well-aware that she was not the most critical person in the room and so had elected not to speak out of turn, a realization that apparently nearly none other had had for themselves. _How awfully imprudent_ , she thought.

The moment anyone in the Chambers considered themselves the most significant of all, they had already lost in the battle of gentle and understated diplomacy.

“The document bears her seal,” Tissaia supplied further.

“It may be so,” Radcliffe leaned forward with a furrowed brow, “but unless I have missed an invitation, this proposal has not endured the Council’s collective scrutiny, which is a key step to any reform proceedings initiated through the lower Chamber.”

“Is this true?” Vilgefortz asked.

Philippa bit her tongue at the vaguely condescending tone of his voice. Next to her, Tissaia pursed her lips.

“It is,” Philippa confirmed. She tapped her fingernails patiently on the polished wooden armrest. “If I may, I shall call on one of the Charter’s exemptions on the matter; extenuating circumstances, as stipulated in section five of the Protocol.”

From across the room, Artaud Terranova scoffed and lowered the bowl of cherries he had snuck in through the kitchens.

“Dearest,” he so callously dared to utter sweetly, and Philippa felt bile rising at the back of her throat. “That is a provision which has not been called upon in centuries.”

“But it _is_ a provision,” Philippa asserted coolly.

Gerhart’s goblet clinked against the table.

“I believe what Artaud was alluding to is the inherently challenging legal nature of such a claim, Philippa. ‘Extenuating’ is a difficult criterion to satisfy within the wider context of the Charter. As you have clearly read the provisions, I assume you have also read the preamble, whereby it is clearly stated that bypassing the inspection safeguard is strictly and indubitably considered an exception to the principle of fairness and validity, and as such, must be interpreted narrowly.”

“I have,” Philippa responded calmly. “I have considered the wording of the provision at length, and believe my arguments for it are substantial.”

“Very well,” Francesca spoke before anyone else could. “I suggest then that we listen carefully to Philippa’s line of reasoning, before submitting the topic through a vote.”

“A vote?” Fercart of Cidaris exclaimed incredulously. His eyes flitted across the room and his chest puffed up haughtily. “Having studied through the vast majority of the Chapter’s assemblies throughout the centuries, I can assure you that the outcome is pre-determined. As Artaud assured, no one has managed to successfully call upon that ground for at least two previous incarnations of the Chambers.”

“We thank you for your wisdom, Fercart, as always,” Radcliff snarked. “Though we have all studied through the same materials to accept our posting, it is ever so educational to listen to your unique and infallible analysis of them.”

Vilgefortz raised his arms in a peacemaking gesture.

“Gentlemen,” he intervened. “Please. Let us listen to our colleague, for she deserves at least that much for all that she did for the Brotherhood after Sodden.”

Philippa’s eyes snapped up to his.

 _And what do you know, Vilgefortz, about what happened after Sodden?_ She thought. When she turned her eyes to Tissaia, she was staring away stubbornly.

Philippa licked at the back of her teeth and then stared forward again.

“Thank you, Vilgefortz,” she nodded. “And thank you, Fercart, for your timely reminder of the last occasion on which such a claim was accepted. At that time, the issue on hand had concerned not an executive, but merely fiscal affair, accentuated by the great decline in financial activities of the North due to a plague.”

Tissaia and Francesca nodded their approval. Vilgefortz was watching her closely.

“Two elements were deemed essential for the satisfaction of the hurdle to circumventing the Council’s examination : firstly, the circumstances must have been of unquestionable and severe gravity for at least three Northern States, and three of the members of the Council, notwithstanding the person who has raised the claim.”

“Very well, very well,” Gerhart nodded in his deep voice, “but you have yet to tell us, Philippa, what are the circumstances?”

“Why,” Philippa wet her lips and steeled her shoulders, “the war, of course.”

All at once, murmurs and scowls of disapproval broke out. Tissaia leaned forward with a hand on her forehead.

“The war?” Artaud guffawed. “The war ended years ago. A peace treaty has been signed and the matter of Sodden has been put to rest.”

“Nevermind the peace treaty,” Fercart objected, and gesticulated wildly about the table. “War is too generic a term to ever qualify as a justification. Its effects too tenuous and hard to quantify. It would be an outrage to allow such an assertion to fly.”

Radcliffe scoffed. “Its effects are _tenuous_?” He stared at Fercart in amazement.

This was a long way from his assertions at Sodden. Perhaps Sabrina had truly made an impact, after all.

It was a fact to take note of. 

Gerhart coughed. “If I may, I believe what Fercart was… ahem, excuse my voice… referring to-”

“ _Hard to quantify_?” Radcliffe persisted, stare morphing all too quickly into a glare.

“Gentlemen,” Tissaia finally talked. _About time_ , Philippa thought to herself, and glanced at her surreptitiously. She appeared incensed. “We have so much still left to deliberate on. Let us be prompt and concise, and let us spare the hysterics.”

“It is quite alright,” Philippa assured and Tissaia stared at her as if she had grown a second head. “I understand Fercart’s averseness to the idea. I must however concur with Radcliffe on one point; how are the effects of the battle of Sodden Hill too tenuous in your eyes, Fercart?”

“I thought we were discussing the war,” Artaud snarled.

“We are.” Francesca interfered again. “Sodden Hill _was_ part of the war. It was our war. Her query stands.”

“I must remind the Chambers,” Vilgefortz suddenly remarked, “that it is strictly forbidden to directly or indirectly seek out the evaluation of a previous verdict of the Chapter through a new motion.”

Rather unexpectedly, Tissaia immediately retaliated. Philippa had to fight off the surprised tilt of her brow at the sternness of her voice.

“And _I_ must remind the Chambers of the golden presumption. The presumption of good will for any member of the lower Chamber who so chooses to engage in discussions of a previous judgment,” Tissaia’s eyes tightened.

“Philippa Eilhart can benefit from that presumption,” she continued, and threw a quick, loaded look at Philippa, “unless anyone wishes to, at this early stage, file a counter-claim for ill intentions. In which case, I ought to, once again, remind the Chambers, of how high a standard the Charter sets for the admissibility of a complaint against a member of the institution.”

Vilgefortz smiled attractively; more prettily and coyly than Redanian prostitutes, Philippa mused.

“I doubt that will be necessary.”

“Good,” Francesca said. “Then I see no reason why Fercart should not answer the question posed.”

All eyes turned on him. Fercart’s face darkened, and from the twist of his mouth, Philippa could tell he was chewing through his gums.

“The effects are indeed too tenuous,” he maintained, voice cold. “War is common happenstance, and its outcomes undeniably ambiguous and hard to define. For the winners, there are benefits and losses, and for the losers, though they loathe to admit it and are probably too dense to recognize it, the same stands. In any case, we have won this war, so it is that much harder to support your claim with it.”

“We won? I must have missed the celebration,” Philippa quipped dryly.

“Philippa,” Tissaia warned.

“Please,” Gerhart sighed deeply, “let us stick to clear argumentation.”

“We did win,” Fercart insisted, staring still at Philippa. “We left that hill as victors and heroes, and history will corroborate, as will the voice of the general public.”

Philippa laughed. She ignored the cursory glances she was receiving from all ends of the table.

“Victors?” Philippa asked lowly. She unhurriedly straightened up in her chair. “Tell me, Fercart, how fares your colleague, Triss Merigold? Last I heard she was still using fenugreek for the feverish nightmares.”

Tissaia tensed up almost instantly. She shakily reached out for her chalice.

Francesca watched with keen interest and Vilgefortz sighed as he sank back into his chair.

Fercart stalled, one second, two, and then he tilted his head faux-contemplatively.

 _As if you have to think about it,_ Philippa spat inside her head. _As if I didn’t find out you sent a spy for her. As if I haven’t been feeding you information ever since._

“I am surprised as to why you ask me Philippa,” he asked. “I was lately under the impression you perhaps know her better than I ever will.”

“Well,” Philippa asserted, “I've certainly known her far more intimately than you ever will.”

At her side, Tissaia’s throat produced a sharp sound; if Philippa had to guess, she had choked on her chardonnay. Near her, Francesca Findabair was doing her damnedest to hide a faint smile.

Fercart was almost foaming at the mouth, and it was this that Philippa had sought to achieve; the man was a known traditionalist and could not fathom the close proximity of two women without a penis in sight.

If she could throw him off kilter for just the shortest amount of time, she could shake his opposition.

“I believe,” Radcliffe of Oxenfurt enunciated categorically, face wrinkled in a disapproving frown, “we have veered off course.”

“Indeed,” Vilgefortz agreed. His gaze on Philippa felt like that of a hawk. “Indeed we have. Philippa, suffice to say, if we were to accept the war as grounds for exemption, the first element, that of gravity, is satisfied automatically. However, the second – that the extenuating circumstances must be unforeseen – remains at issue.”

Philippa stared at him calmly for a moment, then hummed, leaning forward on the table with the ascertained posture of a queen.

“I do not think,” she began, “that any of us could have possibly foreseen how the battle at Sodden Hill would so deeply affect the Brotherhood’s legacy and charted path. Of course, wars have consequences, as Fercart put it – both losses and benefits for all parties involved. And of course, we are prudent and sensible, thus we knew that any war would intrude on our freedoms and ability to work without undue impediments.

“But the losses we suffered at the Hill, and the grief we continue to carry on our shoulders because of that battle, have irrefutably shaped our course of action in the last few years,” Philippa dictated. “Tissaia de Vries had to respond to investigations initiated by the Chapter by reforming the academy and fast-tracking Margarita Laux-Antille’s official posting. You, Radcliffe of Oxenfurt, have had to establish and disband entire commissions to safeguard against a recurrence of such tragic events.  
  
“And you, Fercart of Cidaris,” Philippa traced the outline of her chalice’s designs absently, expression aloof, “have frequently had to leave your seat on the Temerian Council in order to travel across countries and debate joint policy statements on refugees of the South and recovery plans for the war, even though, as I know intimately, such had not been your tasks previously.”

Fercart gripped at his chair restlessly.

Philippa turned her eyes on Vilgefortz. “And I too, as royal advisor to King Vizimir, have had to split my time between affairs of the Brotherhood and matters of politics, more so than I ever have before. I have expended many precious resources to this end, as we all no doubt have.”

She bowed her head modestly to all of them, and mustered all the determination she could for her next sentence.

“It is thus my firm belief, ladies and gentlemen, that had the Chambers foreseen all of the above, and how strenuous and costly this battle would be to the Brotherhood; how much suffering and overwhelming change we would have to endure on the other side, then the Chambers would have never allowed it to transpire in the awful way that it so did, would they have?”

Around her, deafening silence, and the telltale signs of an ugly truth so shamelessly revealed. 

……

**IV. Autumn**

Somewhere in the world there were sea lions with an underbelly lesser than Sigismund Dijkstra’s; Lorgs would lay a wager on it, if he had any money to his name and the corpulent man did not have him by the balls.

Alas, such was not the case.

“And she has remained there?” The Head of Redanian Intelligence urged, reclining back on his seat with his fat hands dutifully clasped under his stomach.

 _The clothes can definitely use the extra support in keeping his abdomen contained_ , Lorgs thought.

“Yes sir,” Lorgs confirmed. “Fercart has not returned ever since he left in the summer, so the sorceress has remained alone in Vizima with the King. She has given up on her search for the bard.”

“Alone?”

In the (admittedly very) brief time Lorgs had been employed under the Redanian Intelligence, he had come to differentiate between four of Sigismund Dijkstra’s moods.

To begin with, there was evident satisfaction, which was an expression Lorgs had observed the man only once directing at someone other than himself – a stray mutt which a few months ago had torn through a rat as it was tiptoeing its way to the castle’s cellar.

Justified, Lorgs figured, and did not judge, for he too was a wine enthusiast, and if by good fortune he had the opportunity to have some, he did not contemplate it irrational to prefer it without the added flavour of a rodent’s piss.

Then, there was barely restrained wrath; there was an inordinate amount of examples to draw from for that one, most recent being his King’s refusal to fund some espionage tours to the South.

The rarest and most odd to comprehend was his behaviour around the sorceress Philippa Eilhart; the God-awful chick who had a body outmatching that of the finest Temerian whores but the attitude of a forty year-old man constantly carrying himself around with the burden of blue balls.

Her grins were more analogous to what he would envision as an alghoul’s attempt at a sneer than an actual human smile. She always appeared no less than two seconds away from stabbing someone in the throat – and her good looks were extremely deceptive in that regard.

Lorgs had been deceived once, thinking himself capable of beating her with a laced knife, but he had evidently been wrong. He was paying heavily still for that accursed error in judgement with the permanent throb of his shoulder.

Why Dijkstra treated her as if she were the sun and the moon and everything in between was a true mystery for the books, Lorgs pondered. Especially when sorceresses like the one he had been assigned to existed : in his eyes, Triss Merigold was both much more pleasant to look at and more importantly, less likely to murder him through sheer power of thought.

The fourth and final expression Dijkstra had was brewing and growing unease, apparent between his eyes and in the tone of his voice. It was this expression he bore now; his discontent discernible, and Lorgs held his shoulders up stiffly.

“Yes sir,” he confirmed. “She is alone. Only a general and an archpriest have been in close contact with her.”

“What of another spirited sorceress? Keira Metz is her name.”

Keira Metz. The sorceress with tresses the color of straw and cunning eyes as those of a fox. She and Triss Merigold sure did enjoy a couple of drinks and vulgar chit-chat under the moonlight. That much he knew.

“She has left,” he informed. “Quite some time ago, to the north. I do not know where she is now.”

Dijkstra scrunched his face up in a nasty scowl and looked at the map hanging on his wall.

“I see,” he said. “What else can you tell me about the one with the pretty hair?”

Why Dijkstra did not call her by her name was another mystery. Lorgs did not care to resolve it.

“She has been receiving letters; mostly related to academics and royal matters, if the deliveries are anything to go by,” he paused, thinking back carefully to one of the dark nights he had managed to sneak furtive glances at her chamber’s window. “Though there was one a while ago…”

“Yes?”

“There was one of particular significance to her – that is to say, she wept reading it.”

“Wept?”

“Yes sir.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am familiar with the precise visuals of crying, sir.”

“And you will become even more so if you don’t lose that tone of voice."

“Apologies, sir.” Lorgs swallowed.

“… That letter too was related to royal affairs?” Dijkstra asked.

“I do not believe so, sir,” Lorgs scratched at the back of his neck. “It arrived at her windowsill, in the royal chambers, rather than the laboratory. She seemed pleased to see it; happy in fact. But she did so cry reading it. And the bird…”

“Yes?” Dijkstra leaned forward. At his prolonged silence, he clapped a hand on the tabletop. “Well do not pause as if you are reciting a bloody monologue at the royal theater, Lorgs. What about the bird?”

“It was a black raven, sir,” Lorgs grit out. He remembered it as it was yesterday. He had never seen one up close, and its eyes had been freakishly lustrous. “Too black. Blacker than ink. Almost…”

“Almost as if it were not natural,” Dijkstra finished, seemingly entranced in thoughts of his own. His hands were tightened on the armrests. “Could you possibly acquire that letter Lorgs?”

Lorgs thought. He would do wonders to cradle the promised pouches of coin in his hands, but breaking and entering into a royal palace chamber was a miracle even he could not perform.

“I’m afraid not, sir,” he explained. “She keeps it safe and close to her bed, where she has her toiletries.”

Dijkstra scoffed. “Nevermind that, then,” he deadpanned. “It is evidently dear to her – as dear as her cosmetics. That’s plenty dear to a sorceress, you see, Lorgs. And it also means it could not have been sent to her by more than a handful of people. Less, even.”

Dijkstra sighed deeply and made to rise from his chair. The task seemed almost unfeasible.

“Yes…” he continued, “I wager I know exactly who it was, in fact.”

Whoever it was, Dijkstra did not deem Lorgs worthy enough to know.

“When was this?” Dijkstra suddenly asked.

“A few weeks ago, sir.”

“And when Fercart no doubt sent for your news, how much of this did you disclose?” Dijkstra suddenly asked.

“Most of it, sir, as you and Lady Eilhart instructed.”

“But not of the letter?”

“Not of that letter, no sir. That seemed too sensitive and valuable, so I only informed you, as you requested.”

“… Good.”

……

_Darling Triss,_

_You must excuse my hurried scrawls, as I am departing tomorrow on a long journey and have next to no time to sit and slave over their aesthetic form or rather, lack thereof._

_I would so dare pronounce that you must also excuse my idleness and apathy during what must have been two of the most awful years of your youthful life, but I daren’t, because you mustn’t, and needn’t._

_Some months ago, the sun shone brightly during the summer solstice, and I happened upon the most curious of flowers during one of my short walks to the countryside, where I practice my knowledge of spells._

_It was a bizarre combination of azure blue and a warm yellow; a shade as spry and delightful as Zerrikanian banana peels, as you used to squeal when you were younger._

_It struck me so that I wish you were there with me, because you have always been so much more imaginative with your ingenious descriptions of plants, and I am naught but an illiterate old windbag in comparison._

_I digress for a short second to inform you that should you ever endeavor to relay the above confession to anyone, I will – have no doubt about it – set fire to your workshop and strangle a kitten in your name._

_Without further undue deviation then, I shall proceed with my roundabout, not-so-but-really-so vague confession letter; for I am too jaded to pretend otherwise._

_I have missed you, Triss. I believed you dead until a year and a half ago, but it is admittedly a hollow excuse as to why I have not contacted you until now. The truth is, I too have been suffering the aftermath of our fight in silence and in blindness; though I am well now._

_It took me years and a near-death experience to realize I have been offloading my pain and resentment for the world on your shoulders for too long now, and this in itself was scarier than my lack of eyesight. I chose to distance myself from everyone and everything, but upon further deliberation, it is only so obvious that you have suffered the brunt of it._

_It may please you to learn I have made amends with Tissaia – she even wants to recommend me to the institutions, would you believe? – and she was the one to inform me of your tireless and fruitless search for me after the war. I could of course urge you to not hold too much of a grudge at her for not sharing my news with you, but I will not._

_It is always rather pleasurable to grill her for a while; trust me, I would know. We cannot allow her to sit in peace for too long, lest she grow bold and seek to have fun, the old hag._

_I must admit that you were right at Sodden – I do not comprehend you, my friend. I have not done so for a while, for I have been too preoccupied with my own trials and tribulations to attempt it. It is perhaps cruel to admit so, but it is honest._

_I think we can all use some honesty now, can’t we?_

_But I do know you, Triss. I have known you since you were a child, and I have held you dear too since then. I do not say it often only because it is oh so difficult to say, but I am hopeful that despite all and despite me, you know it._

_I hope you know that you have been braver in being so open and able to say it without inhibitions for years than you were safeguarding that gate at the Hill; and that’s plenty brave already._

_You are no longer that young brat eating away at my eardrums about her latest academic achievement, but you have maintained all my favourite aspects of hers even in your adulthood, and that I believe to be the bravest accomplishment of all._

_I failed to say so and I failed to see it, too, but I have hope you know it._

_I have hope too that you may incinerate this letter upon the first readthrough, so that no evidence of my uncharacteristic sentimentality ever lingers in this world, but as I know you, I know you will not._

_How selfish you are in this way still._

_Though I have all those hopes and I will hold onto them, I shan’t ask for your response or your forgiveness, for that is unlike me and would pain my ego greatly._

_How selfish I am in this way still; here’s to one last hope that you, brave as you are, will not mind it._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Yennefer._

_……_

Philippa slowly placed the troubling reports on the stall next to her, and stared at the two sorceresses approaching her impassively.

"It must be my lucky day," she tilted her head. "Not one but two honored guests at my front porch."

Keira's hands were clasped tightly in front of her, whereas Sabrina's were characteristically bunched into fists behind her back.

"Philippa," she smiled, and bowed slightly. It seemed as if it pained her greatly to do so.

Keira stepped forward, much less courteous in her greetings.

"How's the post-assembly recovery going?"

But Philippa had been expecting this, of course.  
  
She had always planned ahead, and she had always found success even in failure, because that was what her profession demanded.

Despite the sweeping rejection of her motion, she had achieved her goal and acquired the necessary insight. 

"I should not think you've come all this way to ask me about that, ladies."

Sabrina's smile slipped from her lips. She straightened up and stepped forward determinedly.

"We need to talk."

Philippa hummed.

"Yes. Yes we do."

......

Lorgs shivered horribly in his boots, and cursed forwards and backwards as he braved another ruthless draft of wind without a coat.

October here was much harsher than it was in Temeria; the reason as to why Triss Merigold had opted to abandon the warmth of her castle and peregrinate the northern lands so near the change of season was not evident to him.

The task of figuring it out was unfortunately proving to be much more tiresome and costly than he had originally anticipated.

But he tried to persevere, that he did. He blew heat into his palms and stuffed pelts under the soles of his feet, of the rabbits he had skinned on the road to Daevon. At least, that was where he believed they were headed.

He could not be certain, because he had not read the message Triss Merigold had received, and he had had no time to sit and mull it over before she had packed her bags and her precious toiletries and her expensive elixirs.

She spent two days in a state of constant unease – for Lorgs could not think of a better way to describe her furtive looks and urgent deliberations with her King – and then, she had saddled a horse and left.

Since then she had been traveling to the north, and each time Lorgs dared dream that they had reached their destination, his fragile hopes had been crushed. 

He wondered why she had not waved her hands about and opened a space vacuum, or whatever it was that sorceresses called it, to hastily reach her destination. He wondered why she did not send a letter to Keira Metz, warning of her absence, as she was prone to do. He wondered what that message she had received on her windowsill was all about.

He wondered and wondered. Too many unanswered questions and too much cold and not enough money to keep him on the job, Lorgs mused.

A raise and an indemnity was in order after this, he thought. He would demand as much upon arrival to Redania.

There was a plan : he would first see this through to the end, wherever the sorceress was headed. He would keep mental note of every last thing she uttered and endeavoured to achieve. Then he would return to Dijkstra and Philippa Eilhart and request that they increase their bid if they want to receive the information he had amassed.

And if they refused, he would tell on them to Fercart of Cidaris.

One way or another, he would get his gold.

That was his plan.

But daydreams of his grand plan ceased abruptly at the sound of a snapped twig and shifting dirt.

He was not alone in the trees.

He glanced over his shoulder to the vast woods and then back towards the inn Triss Merigold had entered for the night.

It was late – too late for her to up and leave, he decided, and so turned his back on it to inspect the trees behind him. His hand was gripping the pommel of his sword securely.

He took a few steps in the dark and leaned into the bark of a tree, concealing most of his mass behind it.

For a moment, nothing but silence; but then, a hurried movement out of the corner of his eye. Lorgs, agile as he was, grabbed with his left hand the hilt of the dagger on his belt and threw it across the space with unfailing precision.

Yet, when he emerged to see what he had pinned to the ground, all he saw was red leaves, mud and buzzing insects. The dagger was nowhere to be seen, as if it had vanished in thin air.

He unsheathed his sword but retreated slowly, because Lorgs was above all a practical man; a man of weapons and many fighting skills, and he was also a pragmatist. If something could evade his stiletto from five meters away, then it would no doubt be a capable competitor towards any attack he could launch.

It was preferable to fight in the open, in the street, rather in the obscurity of the woods.

Lorgs did not know of the woods. He had grown up by the sea.

Lorgs did not heed the forest’s warnings; the lethal silence and the fluttering birds, nor was he familiar with the indicators of a trap in the foliage.

He’d seen plenty of deadly plots and nasty affairs in the past, but he had never seen as much as his foe.

His foe was swift, merciless and unfamiliar to him.

Lorgs did not see him until the jury-rigged snap traps had screeched and his leg was bleeding through – until it was too late to do anything but wail in agony and helplessness.

It was an elf. It was a ruthless, livid elf. Behind him, others started emerging from their hiding spots – a whole squad of them.

 _Why?_ He had no time to ask.

He saw the arrow as it whizzed towards him, and as if the world had slowed, one last time to accentuate the misfortune, he screamed before its sharpened tip ripped straight through his forehead.

His body went limp and his eyes dimmed.

With them, so did dim the hopes for a cosy room and a hot meal up ahead, and aspirations to one day be free of his debts.

So did dim and die the ambitious plans for a raise, and the news that he was supposed to pass along.

And no one – not Fercart, nor Sigismund Dijkstra nor Philippa Eilhart, would timely come to know that Triss Merigold had opted to abandon the warmth of her castle and cross the northern lands so near the change of season, or why.

……

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> until the rowboat next drifts back to its port.... <3

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading 💖


End file.
